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Illicit sex and legitimate subjects

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Title:
Illicit sex and legitimate subjects Victorian constructions of prostitution and the working-class family
Creator:
Amy, Lori E
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English
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viii, 241 leaves : ; 29 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Discourse ( jstor )
Diseases ( jstor )
Hospitals ( jstor )
Mothers ( jstor )
Narratives ( jstor )
Novels ( jstor )
Prostitution ( jstor )
Sex workers ( jstor )
Victorians ( jstor )
Women ( jstor )
Dissertations, Academic -- English -- UF
English thesis, Ph. D
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non-fiction ( marcgt )

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Thesis:
Thesis (Ph. D.)--University of Florida, 1996.
Bibliography:
Includes bibliographical references (leaves 228-239).
General Note:
Typescript.
General Note:
Vita.
Statement of Responsibility:
by Lori E. Amy.

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University of Florida
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Copyright [name of dissertation author]. Permission granted to the University of Florida to digitize, archive and distribute this item for non-profit research and educational purposes. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions requires permission of the copyright holder.
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ILLICIT SEX AND LEGITIMATE SUBJECTS:
VICTORIAN CONSTRUCTIONS OF PROSTITUTION
AND THE WORKING-CLASS FAMILY


















By

LORI E. AMY


A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT
OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA

1996


UNIVERSITY OF FLOMlDA LIBRARIES


































Copyright 1996

by

LORI E. AMY

































For Helen, who showed me the possibilities, and for

Kashif, who helped me to realize them.














ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


I am grateful to be able to acknowledge the support,

advice, and encouragement I received for this project from

Elizabeth Langland. Without her direction and assistance, it

simply would not have been possible to complete. Les Thiele

and Dan Cottom generously agreed to read a work in progress,

and their good humor and insightful critique were extremely

valuable. Chris Snodgrass, whose perspective and advice have

been extremely helpful to me, sacrificed time and sleep to

help me meet my deadlines. I am thankful to Ofelia Schutte

and Don Ault for their incredible kindness and willingess to

juggle busy schedules on my behalf. I am indebted to the

scholarly work of the participants in Elizabeth Langland's

feminist theory and Victorian literature seminars: Maryellen

Burke, Virginia Evjion, Aeron Haynie, Shea Joy, Simon Lewis,

Mary-Ann Leiby, Bonnie Tensen, Marlene Tromp, Chandra

Mountain-Tyler and Christa Zornebelden. The many colleagues

and friends whose discussion, debate, and suggestions helped

to shape this work are too numerous to fully acknowledge here,

but I must give a special thanks to Susan-Marie Birkenstock

and Jennifer Razee for their scholarly support and unfailing

friendship.








I owe, too, a debt of thanks to the many people who have

aided my research: John Van Hook of the University of Florida

Libraries, Matthew Derrick and Michele Gunning at the Royal

College of Surgeons, and the staff at the Greater London

Records Office. I am grateful, also, to the University of

Florida for the Kirkland Research Grant which enabled me to

research this project, and for the Kirkland dissertation grant

with which I was able to complete it.

There are, in addition to the many people I have already

named, a handful of people whose help at different points in

my life made my "work" possible. In a way, this project stems

from my early work with Kathrin Brantley. Joyce Dreyfus has

kept me physically functional over the last four years. Sidney

Schofield has answered my middle-of-the-night distress calls

for technical assistance. And, finally, I am deeply indebted

to Kashif Tarar for his patience, energy, strength, and

support throughout my work on this project.











ACKNOWLEDGMENTS .......... ..................... iv

ABSTRACT ............ ........................ ix

CHAPTER 1 THE "FALLEN" WOMAN AND THE WORKING-CLASS FAMILY 1

CHAPTER 2 PROSTITUTION, DISEASE, AND THE IMPERIAL STATE 24
The London Lock Hospital and Asylum .. ........ ..29
Restructuring the Working-Class Family .. ....... ..44
The Contagious Diseases Acts and Woman's
Animal Body ...... ................. 44
The Word, the Law, and the Truth .. ....... ..47

CHAPTER 3 WOMEN ON THE SCAFFOLD: BASTARDY AND ITS
CONSEQUENCES IN RUTH, ADAM BEDE, AND TESS OF
THE d'URBERVILLES ...... ................. ..68
Narratives of Seduction ................. ..... 68
The Foundling Hospital and Sexual Confession 68
The Novels ......... ..................... .79
Ruth ........ ..................... 78
Adam Bede ........ ................... ..86
Tess ............. ........ 103
Sex and the Modern Family ....... 121

CHAPTER 4 THE "OTHER WOMAN'S" SHADOW: DOUBLING
FALLENNESS AS NARRATIVE FRAME ... .......... 131
"Love of Finery" and the "Fall".... ........ 131
Mary Barton ....... ................... 135
The Fall as Narrative Frame .. ......... ..139
The Fallen Woman as Home Wrecker ...... 144
Working-Class Romance Plots and Domestication 146
Transgressive Desire and Punishment ...... ..148
David Copperfield... ............... 152
The Fall and Class Transgression. .. 155
Narratives of the Fall and the Legitimation
of Working-Class Women's Exploitation 161
Failed Domestic Women and Narratives of the
Fall ...... ................. 166

CHAPTER 5 THE OTHER SIDE: WORKING-CLASS WOMEN
TELL THEIR STORIES ............... 173
Reading Working-Class Women's Autobiographies 173
Mary Saxby's Memoirs of a Female Vagrant ...... ..182
Emma Smith's A Cornish Waif's Story ....... ..193
Hannah Cullwick's Diaries .... ............ 208
Conclusion ........ .................... ..221

REFERENCE LIST ........ .................... 223









Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School
of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy

ILLICIT SEX AND LEGITIMATE SUBJECTS:
VICTORIAN CONSTRUCTIONS OF PROSTITUTION
AND THE WORKING-CLASS FAMILY

By

Lori E. Amy

August 1996

Chairperson: Elizabeth Langland
Major Department: English

This study analyzes the ways in which the Victorian

ideology of domesticity and narratives of fallen women

intersect legal, medical, and socio-political discourses. An

inter-textual reading of institutional and popular texts

reveals that narratives of prostitution performed the

important ideological work of restructuring working-class

sexual and family relations according to bourgeois ideologies

of gender. Within this ideology, the production of the

"prostitute" (the figure of the illegitimate outside of sexual

exchange) is necessary to the production of "wife" and

"mother" (the ground of legitimate sexual exchange). An

analysis of Lock Hospital and Asylum Reports, the 1871 Royal

Commission Investigation into the Operation of the Contagious

Diseases Acts, and Foundling Hospital Petitions proves that

fears of a contaminating female sexuality intersect

bourgeoisie anxieties about containing the working-classes and

motivate state controls of working-class women's sexuality.

The analysis then critiques these fears as represented in the

vii








novels Ruth, Adam Bede, Tess of the d'Urbervilles, Mary Barton

and David Copperfield. Finally, a reading of working-class

women's autobiographies analyzes the effects of state controls

and popular discourses of domesticity and prostitution on

women's lives and the strategies these women evolved with

which to meet their situations.


viii














CHAPTER 1
THE "FALLEN" WOMAN AND THE WORKING-CLASS FAMILY


Cheap is when you want less
than pleasure, a baby, or a
hundred dollars.

Carol Leigh (The Scarlet
Harlot)


This study explores one strand of what Mary Poovey

describes as "the ideological work of gender." I am

particularly interested in the ideological work of Victorian

constructions of "fallen women": precisely what constitutes a

fall? Who is subject to the fall and what sanctions does it

entail? The category of "fallen woman" was important to a

wide range of Victorian discourses. This indicates that it

performed an ideological work across social, political, legal,

and medical registers. In fact, Victorian classifications of

fallenness helped to redefine working-class gender roles and

to assimilate a migrating rural workforce to the labor demands

of the industrial city. As Foucault argues, "for the state to

function in the way that it does, there must be, between male

and female or adult and child, quite specific relations of

domination which have their own configuration and relative

autonomy" (Power/Knowledge 188). The nineteenth century's

narratives of fallenness reveal important components of these








2

"relations of domination," both between the middle and

working class and between men and women. One of the most

crucial function of middle-class Victorian constructions of

"fallen" women was to effectively police working-class

families.

Amanda Anderson notes in Tainted Souls and Painted Faces:

The Rhetoric of Fallenness in Victorian Culture, that "fallen

woman" signifies "a range of feminine identities: prostitutes,

unmarried women who engage in sexual relations with men,

victims of seduction, adulteresses, as well as variously

delinquent lower-class women" (2). This construction is so

broad that virtually any working-class woman could be

suspected of prostitution. This conflation of working-class

women with prostitution is painfully clear in a passage from

the 1871 Royal Investigation into the Operation of the

Contagious Diseases Acts:

(Commissioner): Do not you find there are young
women who follow some trade, such as the selling of
lucifer matches, who are prostitutes in disguise?
(Police Inspector Anniss): Yes, that is the most
difficult class we have, because they get about in
the fields and lanes at night...[and] do a great
deal of damage... They travel about as tinkers,
&c., who do anything but work, and do a great deal
of damage in communicating disease at the present
time. (22)

This passage elucidates the anxieties underlying Victorian

classifications of women's sexuality. Police and Lock

Hospital reports demonstrate a need to classify working-class

women according to their labor. Working-class women whose

labor could not be identified, or whose means of subsistence








3

seemed, according to middle-class gender roles, inappropriate

for women, were suspected of being prostitutes in disguise.

Police Inspector Anniss curiously conflates a failure to work

with disease: the tinkers "do anything but work" and "a great

deal of damage in communicating disease." This need to

categorize working-class women as either respectable workers

or dangerous prostitutes reflects the importance to the

industrial state of regulating women's labor. According to

Anderson, this anxiety and confusion is also emblematic of

"more general cultural anxieties about the very possibility of

deliberative moral action: to 'fall' is, after all, to lose

control" (2). Thus Victorian "depictions of prostitutes and

fallen women in Victorian culture typically dramatize

predicaments of agency and uncertainties about the nature of

self-hood, character, and society" (Anderson 1).

Anderson, however, is particularly concerned with the

class and gender implications of representations of fallen

women as lacking the autonomy of the male subject. While

Anderson focuses on fallenness as one register through which

middle-class agency is negotiated,' I am more concerned with

1Anderson is particularly concerned with the functions of
fallenness in Victorian culture: the figure of fallenness as
hyperdetermined, in stark contrast to the self-determined
character of the bourgeois male (10); the ways in which
"fallenness is rearticulated to secular and scientific
paradigms" and "ultimately served to loosen religious and
ethical moorings (3); its centrality to the Victorian debates
between idealism and materialism (3); the complex ways in
which fallenness challenged models of feminine virtue (15);
the trope of metalepsis, in which "the fallen figure is
transformed from an effect into a cause, or vice versa," in








4

what fallenness can suggest about working-class women's

agency. The figure of the fallen woman is, to use a phrase

from Nancy Armstrong's Desire and Domestic Fiction, one of the
"sites where political history obviously converged with the

history of sexuality as well as with that of the novel to

produce a specific kind of individual" (21). She argues that:

By the early decades of the nineteenth century,
middle-class writers and intellectuals can be seen
to take the virtues embodied by the domestic woman
and to pit them against working-class culture. It
took nothing less than the destruction of a much
older concept of the household for
industrialization to overcome working-class
resistance. (8)

Among the most crucial of working-class familial

structures targeted for reform was the structure of sexual

relations. J.A.D. Blaikie, in "The Country and the City:

Sexuality and Social Class in Victorian Scotland" argues that,

contrary to the city-dweller's popular myth of peasant virtue,

the sexual mores of rural agrarian populations placed far less

emphasis on paternity and legitimacy than did city dwellers in

general and the middle class in particular. Pre-marital

intercourse (and its possible consequences) did not have the

same social taboo for much of the working class that it did

for the middle class. For the middle class, "family fortunes

hinged upon the prudent choice of partners [and] courtship

demanded an open etiquette, whilst indiscretions were

concealed, taboo; with the rural working class, where no such


which the fallen woman oscillates "between victim and threat,
effect and cause" (16).








5

constraints operated, the situation was reversed" (Blaikie

87). The "problem" of illegitimacy, then, "is not just about

sexual relations; it concerns the whole process of production

and reproduction" (85). Thus, in rural agricultural

communities where children's labor-power could be an economic

asset, premarital intercourse often functioned as a guarantee

of a woman's fertility. Quite contrary to rural norms, urban

working-class laboring and living conditions made illegitimate

children a monetary drain on the state and an embarrassment to

codes of middle-class respectability.2 Simultaneously,

nineteenth-century capitalist rhetoric claimed that the lazy,

unproductive poor were responsible for their own poverty.

Discourses moralizing poverty and working-class degeneracy

fueled middle-class efforts to "reform" working-class sexual

and family relations. Hence, "housing and courtship provided

the active loci for reform" (Blaikie 84).

The narrative repetition of fallenness seems especially

important when read against the common complaints of the huge

body of social workers deployed in Victorian England: they

deplored the working-class's disregard for legal marriage



2Also see Jacques Donzelot's The Policing of Families, a
history of the family chronicling France's evolution from
Foundling hospitals to public assistance. He argues that the
social, medical, charitable, educational and religious
interventions into the lives of the urban working-class were
a "social economy" designed to "diminish the social cost of
their reproduction and obtain an optimum number of workers at
a minimum public expense: in short, what is customarily termed
philanthropy" (16).








6

certificates, their willingness to change sexual partners and

domiciles without any formal contractual agreement, and the

undefinability of family structures which were no longer

organized along the lines of previous extended or kinship

structures common to pre-industrial agrarian living

conditions, nor yet along the lines of the single-household

family structure of the middle-class city dweller.3

The move to reform working-class culture operated

simultaneously on several different registers. Embedded in

the economic conditions of an urbanizing industrial economy,

the discourses of politics, popular fiction, social science,

law, medicine, the popular press, charities, religious

institutions and philanthropical societies, all worked within

and on one another. As Charles Bernheimer in Figures of Ill-

Repute: Representing Prostitution in Nineteenth-Century France

says:



3For a more detailed development of the specific working-
class conditions attacked by middle-class sociologists,
philanthropists, charity and rescue workers, see also Ellen
Ross's Love and Toil, especially the chapter 'Miss, I wish
I had your Life': The Poor of London and Their Chroniclers";
William Acton's Prostitution Considered in Its Moral, Social,
and Sanitary Aspects, and "Observations on Illegitimacy in the
London Parish's of St. Marleybone, St. Pancras, and St. George
of Southwark"; Henry Mayhew's London Labour and the London
Poor; and Frank Mort's Dangerous Sexualities, especially the
chapter "Decoding Morality: The Domain of the Sexual."
Anderson, Armstrong, Langland, and Walkowitz all make
reference to the same phenomenon. In earlier studies, Linda
Mahood's The Magdalenes: Prostitution in the Nineteenth
Century and Frances Finnegan's Poverty and Prostitution: A
Study of Victorian Prostitutes in York also discuss the sexual
attitudes of the working class.










There is no necessary break between the texts we
recognize as "literary" and those we designate
officially as social, historical, political, or
legal. The fantasmatic dimension that we
acknowledge as inherent to literary production also
constitutes a generative force in the creation of
public discourses that purport to have erased the
traces of unconscious desire. (3)

The ideology of the domestic woman cut across all of

these discursive registers and became an instrument for

redefining working-class women's work, family, and social

relations. But, as Armstrong points out, there was a

substantial working-class resistance to middle-class reform

efforts. Working-class women had good reason to resist

reformation to middle-class virtues. For middle-class women,

the domestic space could be a sphere in which they could

exercise a particular power. But home meant something very

different for working-class women. Working-class residences

were notoriously dismal, cramped quarters, overcrowded, and

without the conveniences which made middle-class homes havens.

They were also another site of labor for working women.

Unlike their middle-class counterparts, who relied on hired

help to perform the strenuous physical labor required to

maintain a household and rear children, working-class women

performed this labor themselves. They often also made

additional money by taking in laundry, doing needlework, or

seeking other such home-based employment as was available,

thus making the home a double site of labor. And, being often

cut off from extended family relations, the confinement to a








8

working-class home could also mean isolation for women.4 As

Emma Smith described it, married life was a "lonely existence"

(168).

Thus, while working-class women occupied a very different

position than their middle-class counterparts, they were

nonetheless targets of wide-ranging social and political

activity to make them conform to middle-class constructions of

femininity. The nineteenth-century "exalted the domestic

woman" (Armstrong 5), and this ascendancy configured "a new

form of political power" (Armstrong 3). The middle-class

woman's power was in the management of her household; "the

household had to be governed by a form of power that was

essentially female--that is, essentially different from that

of the male and yet a positive force in its own right" (19).

Following Jacques Donzelot, Armstrong argues that this marks

"the transition from a government of families to a government

4Jacques Donzelot, in The Policing of Families, argues
that nineteenth-century French architectural designs for
working-class lodgings intentionally sought "a housing unit
small enough so that no 'outsider' would be able to live in
it" (42). While the French and English situations were not
identical, there is a close parallel between them. Certainly
the English were as troubled as the French by what both
perceived as "the immorality and lack of hygiene of the
working-class milieu" (43). Both economies were interested in
facilitating the surveillance of disgruntled working-class men
by marking the domestic space as private, not social, thus
effectively requiring would-be trouble-makers (unhappy
workers, union mongers, potential revolutionaries) to
congregate in public space. Marking the domestic space as
private both increased the amount of work women were required
to do in that space (meet new standards of cleanliness, assume
full responsibility for cooking, laundering, and child care)
and minimized a woman's ability to move outside of the
domestic space for her own leisure.










through the family" (Donzelot 92). This power, however,

rested upon an ideal of femininity allocating to women the

home as their special realm of knowledge and their sole

domain. But the home, often figured as a haven with its

attending angel, can be decoded so that we recognize it as a

theater for the staging of a family's social position, a

staging that depends on a group of prescribed domestic

practices" (Langland 9). These "prescribed domestic




5Elizabeth Langland, in Nobody's Angels, offers an
important critique of Armstrong's argument. She notes that,
while "Armstrong is herself resisting producing what she
criticizes in Foucault: 'a story of power [that] often
describes what seems to be the inexorable unfolding of order'
(282n.22)," her study nevertheless "produces just that
narrative" (7). Langland analyzes the power of the middle-
class woman's sphere as "a reciprocal process" in which
"middle-class women were produced by domestic discourses even
as they reproduced them to consolidate middle-class control"
(11). The same is true for working-class women. These women
were both operated on by the discourses constructing
previously accepted modes of working-class life as unnatural
and immoral (field labor, premarital sex and pregnancies) and
were themselves instrumental in adopting and disseminating
these discourses and facilitating the changes in family
structure requisite for their changing economic and social
order. Individual women's responses to different discourses
operating on them varied widely, from internalizing and
reproducing those discourses to resisting and subverting them.
But they all had to confront discourses and practices working
to change their gender definitions and prescribe a new set of
socially acceptable gender-specific practices. As Armstrong
argues, "the representation of the individual as most
essentially a sexual subject preceded the economic changes
that made it possible to represent English history as the
narrative unfolding of capitalism" (13). I want to pursue the
relation between the narratives creating new roles for women
in changing family structures and state regulation of women's
bodies based on the perceived 'naturalness' of these new
narratives.








10

practices"6 were imbricated in a set of power relations in

which middle-class women were key agents in maintaining

middle-class dominance. Using Pierre Bourdieu's Language and

Symbolic Power to analyze the new bourgeois ideal the domestic

woman epitomizes, Langland argues:

Expanding Bourdieu's idea of cultural capital to
include the practices of everyday life, we may see
that the very rhetoric that insisted on the
separation of private from public spheres in
Victorian England and depicted Victorian women as
disinterested cultural guardians facilitated the
operation of this symbolic violence in which the
'structured and structuring instruments of
communication and knowledge ... help to ensure that
one class dominates another.' (Langland 10)

Many feminist scholars read the nineteenth-century

domestic novel as instrumental in constructing and

disseminating new ideals of femininity. Armstrong argues that

"one cannot distinguish the production of the new female ideal

either from the rise of the novel or from the rise of the new

middle classes in England" (8). Central to the new female

ideal was the discourse of purity. By the mid 1830's, the

discourse of sexuality shifted its focus from the aristocracy

6For a detailed explanation of this, see the Introduction
to Nobody's Angels. Langland reads the middle-class woman's
domains of knowledge and her field of power as encompassing
everything from "increasingly complex rules of etiquette and
dress, to the growing formalization of Society and the Season,
to the proliferation of household-help manuals, to the
institution of household prayer and the custom of house-to-
house visiting, to cookery and eating behavior; they even
encompass major changes in household architecture. To say
that beginning in the 1830's and the 1840's middle-class women
controlled significant discursive practices is to argue that
they controlled the dissemination of certain knowledges and
thus helped to ensure a middle-class hegemony in mid-Victorian
England" (9).








11

to the "the newly organizing working classes," which became

the more obvious target of moral reform" (Armstrong 20).

Working-class women's sexuality--indeed, any sexually desiring

woman--began to be marked as aberrant. Within an ideology

marking woman's natural sphere as domestic angel and mother,

anything outside of the home or a sexuality whose aim is

motherhood becomes unnatural. Any woman to whom sexual desire

could be attached was ipso facto fallen. As the discourses

desexualizing "normal" women became more popular, so too did

the discourses demonizing sexual women. Women's sexuality was

associated with decay, contagion, eruption, disease; "woman"

was feared for "the contaminating decomposition of her sexual

ferment" (Bernheimer 2).8

The domestic woman may well have become a new loci of

power in middle class households, but that power was a stage

in the political and economic evolution in which we are still

engaged, and the plots punishing the desire of fallen women

7The popularization of the desexualized middle-class
angel has been well researched. Helena Michie, Nina Auerbach,
Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar, Amanda Anderson, Nancy
Armstrong, and Elizabeth Langland all discuss this in detail.
While William Acton's medical discourse claiming that women
had no sexual desire hardly monopolized Victorian
understandings of women's sexuality, it did feature largely in
popular imagination. See also James Kay Shuttleworth's The
Moral and Physical Condition of the Working-Classes and Edwin
Chadwick's Report on the Sanitary Condition of the Labouring
Population of Great Britain.
8Charles Bernheimer's study of male fantasies of
prostitutes in nineteenth-century France examines the fear of
a contaminating, rotting, repulsive female sexuality. See
also Nina Auerbach's Woman and the Demon: The Life of a
Victorian Myth.








12

are one symptom of the instability of that power. What does

one do with women who want what the middle class has? Who are

not willing to be pacified with the narrative of their place

in a cosmic order, not willing to choose bodily deprivation

over bodily comfort? What does one do with women who don't

want to be servants in other people's homes, don't want to

labor from youth into an early old age in a sweat shop or a

factory while going blind or getting consumption? Working-

class women's desire for upward social mobility and personal

autonomy is the uncontainable threat the middle-class must

narrate over and over again, and narrate in a way that

rescripts that desire as responsible for the suffering the

fallen woman must inevitably endure. The figure of the fallen

woman encompasses women who resisted domestication along

middle-class lines, as well as women who lived with men

without legal marriage, had illegitimate children, or who made

money with sex. The fallen woman was seen either as abnormal

(where both sexual desire and living outside the domestic

sphere as household manager and mother are seen as unnatural

in women), or diseased (where women's sex is contagious,

defiling; she spreads venereal disease, her seemingly innocent

beauty hosts contaminating impurities). This construction of

women's diseased sexuality facilitated the rise of a medical

discourse constructing prostitutes as dangerous and making

them targets of forced medical procedures. Read in this way,

the figure of the fallen woman signifies the confusions and








13

anxieties surrounding the emerging organization of family and

state ongoing in the Victorian period. We thus need to read

the narratives of Lock Hospitals and Asylums, the Contagious

Diseases Acts, Foundling Hospitals, novels, and working-class

women's testimonies for the ways in which working-class

women's sexuality was a threat to the emerging order of the

state; institutional efforts to contain the threat they posed;

and the various methods particular women devised to negotiate

this change from the old family regime to the new.

Institutional documents such as Lock Hospital and Asylum

records, police and medical reports, Royal Commission

Investigations, and Foundling Hospital petitions chart the

state's increasing control over working-class women's

sexuality and the rise of narratives legitimating state

intervention into working-class family life. These records

reveal the means by which constructions of fallenness were

used to police working-class family structures. Women became

the objects of legislation in the state's attempt to control

the spread of venereal disease (Walkowitz) as well as the site

of the campaign for racial purity. They were penalized for not

being good mothers, for not producing proper subjects of the

English nation. Motherhood emerged as a corollary to

respectability and an impossibility for fallenness. Most

essentially, these narratives reveal the state's interest in

restructuring the sexual attitudes of rural workers moving to

the industrial city. In particular, the working-class's often








14

casual acceptance of pre-marital pregnancy posed a problem for

Victorian reformers. While illegitimate children could be

absorbed into a rural agricultural economy, they could not be

absorbed into the capitalist industrial economy. Regulating

working-class women's sexuality was thus crucial to

assimilating the new work force to the demands of the new

economy. Donzelot suggests three of the most important means

of regulating women's sexuality--convents, foundling

hospitals, and organized brothels--were points of "transition

between the old family regime and the new" (23).9 He argues

that these institutions both "function[ed] as a surface of

absorption for the undesirables of the family order" and as "a

strategical base for a whole series of corrective

interventions in family life" (25-26). I argue that part of

the work these institutions performed was the articulation of

an ideology of respectable working-class motherhood which is

central to the construction of legitimate subjects. Within

this ideology, the production of the fallen woman (the figure

of the illegitimate outside of sexual exchange) is necessary




9Donzelot argues that the three institutions arose and
declined within approximately the same time-span. He dates
the use of convents as training grounds in missionary, relief,
and educational work for unmarried women as the 17th-century.
Simultaneously, there is a consolidation of a state
organization for abandoned children and a move to remove
prostitution from visibility by creating supervised brothels.
All three institutions were in decline by the end of the 19th
century. He sees "a single historical curve" which "unified
these three types of procedures" (23).








15

to the production of the "wife" and "mother" (the ground of

legitimate sexual exchange).

Issues of legitimacy, motherhood, class, family relations

and state form the essential fabric of the Victorian novel:

The sense in which mothers are responsible to the
state and are under its scrutiny, expected to turn
out a child schooled in specific ways and cared for
as prescribed by medical and associated
professionals, was a distinct product of this era,
one that is the central issue in the family
histories of Foucault and Donzelot. (Ross 5)

Nineteenth-century novels incessantly narrate the fall,

suffering, punishment, and death of undomesticable women--

women whose sexuality does not conform to the emerging ideal

of middle-class femininity. Writing her suffering is in a

very real way the punishment of her desire.0 It is the angry

lashing-back at the woman whose desire will not be contained.

This writing punishes "bad" women: sexual women, relentlessly

fertile women, poor women, undomesticable women. These women

were most of all guilty for being excessive, in excess of the

economy: their laboring bodies could certainly be absorbed

into the economic needs of early capitalist production, but


10Anderson notes the "unsettling combination of sympathy
and sadism" in David Copperfield (95). Similarly, Poovey
argues that "In David Copperfield, as in the medical texts
[she] has already examined, woman is made to bear the burden
of sexuality and to be the site of sexual guilt because the
problematic aspects of sexuality can be rhetorically (if not
actually) mastered when they are externalized and figured in
an other" (97). Armstrong argues that "it was as if the
production of this new Victorian fiction depended on bringing
forth some monstrous woman to punish and then banish from the
text, as regularly happened in novels by the Brontes, Gaskell,
Dickens, and Thackeray" (165).








16

their sexual bodies could not be regulated through the

economic system into which their labor was conscripted. Thus

nineteenth-century representations of fallen women as the

excess, the remainder, the outside that cannot be fit into the

economy, indicate a change in economic and power relations.

Their narrated punishment responds to the very real threat

undomesticable working-class women represented to the middle

class. This threat was discursively constructed as the threat

of contagion--the corruption, contamination, pollution of the

wives and daughters of the middle-class; the temptation,

seduction, and disease of their sons. But the real threat was

to the economic order into which their desires could not be

assimilated. This threat was confined and managed by

sexualizing working-class women's desire, a move which

constructed the fallen woman as aberrant, a sexually depraved

animal.

Certainly, then, the figure of the fallen woman is

deployed to construct working-class women's patterns of

courtship, marriage, and motherhood according to middle-class

family structures. Social workers, reformers, charity

workers, churches, schools and hospitals carried on this work

of inculcation, an inculcation necessary to the restructuring

required for an industrial economy. But, in the narration of

their suffering, we can read something more about the agency

of working-class women and the threat they posed to








17

middle-class hegemony.11 Medical and legal narratives of the

diseased and contaminating woman flourished alongside the

asylum and rescue narratives constructing the victimized

fallen woman. But even the seemingly sympathetic narratives

of the suffering fallen sister mask a tale of unrelenting

punishment. Since Moll Flanders, there have been virtually

no texts which represent fallen women without the

corresponding narration of their suffering and their

punishment. These narratives stand in very stark contrast to

some of the stories such women have told.12 The narrative

repetition of the discourse of the fallen woman's suffering

functions not only to construct the character of respectable

women, but also to imaginatively punish the fallen woman. We


11This narrative punishment of the fallen woman is
especially important when read against the effects of the
Contagious Diseases Acts on prostitutes and other working-
class women in garrison towns. The Contagious Diseases Acts
drastically affected working-class women's lives. Under the
Acts, a special police force walked the streets at night with
the specific task of identifying "prostitutes." These men
were on the lookout for any new women in town, for women who
were seen conversing with prostitutes or inhabiting areas
known for prostitution, for women who were with men to whom
they could not prove they were married, or for women who were
thought to be soliciting men. These police had the right to
accost, harass, and arrest any woman at any time. Any woman
on the streets at night was subject to interrogation by these
police for any reason.
12For instance, in her 1825 memoirs Harriet Wilson, a
well-known courtesan, unashamedly narrates the pleasures of
her life with various upper-class lovers. Similarly, the
lowest point of Nell Kimball's life was when she tried to live
by needlework. At the brink of starvation, after the death of
her child, she went back into business as a prostitute,
eventually opening her own brothel, and lived the life of
middle-class luxury.








18

can see in the repetition of these narratives the persistence

and strength of working-class women's threat to middle-class

constructions of woman, family, and state.3

There are several ways in which my interests extend the

field of inquiry within which scholars in this field have

worked. Anderson, Walkowitz, and Nord examine the category of

"prostitute" and the ideologies of gender underlying the

construction of women as virtuous or fallen, respectable or

corrupt. But these analyses do not engage the specific ways

in which the constructions of virtue and fallenness inflect

cultural perceptions of motherhood or the function of

motherhood in the newly organized economy of the modern state.

Ross, Mort, and Donzelot provide an important

historical/sociological examination of changes in the social,

political, and psychological discourses of the family and

motherhood. But they do not address the relationship between

emerging discourses of family in official and state documents

and representations of fallenness in fictional and

autobiographical texts. Anderson, Armstrong, and Langland

all deal with narratives of fallenness on several different

registers, but all are primarily concerned with constructions


13Using Lacan's theorizing of repetition, Judith Butler
argues that, where coherent subjectivity is achieved,
repetition is superfluous. We thus read in repetitive
narratives the incoherence of the subject, "the excluded
invariably returning] to threaten the subject's implicit
claim to be self-sufficient, transparently self-conscious, and
self-identical" (12). (In "Lana's 'Imitation': Melodramatic
Repetition and the Gender Performative.")








19

of middle-class subjectivity. Bernheimer details the

intensely powerful misogynist fantasies linking women,

disease, and decay, but, like Walkowitz and Anderson, he does

not elaborate a relationship between these fantasy structures

and constructions of motherhood.

All of these analyses articulate an aspect of the

complicated nexus of power relations involving representations

of fallenness and woman's body as diseased, state regulation

of woman's body, and the restructuring of the working-class

family in the industrial city. However, none of these

analyses brings state institutions' narratives of fallenness,

popular fiction, and autobiography together for a detailed

analysis of how these texts intersect. I am interested in

Victorian constructions of subjectivity across all of these

registers. My study uses the important work already done in

this field with which to do a close reading of narratives of

fallenness and their relationship to constructions of

motherhood in the texts of state institutions (Lock Hospitals

and Asylums, Royal Commission Reports, Foundling Hospital

records), novels, and working-class women's autobiographies.

I juxtapose institutional and middle-class representations of

fallenness with working-class women's self-representations in

order to: l)expose the differences between middle- and

working-class representations; and 2)suggest often

unrecognized possibilities for working-class women's agency.








20

Chapter Two analyzes the texts of the Lock Hospital and

Asylum and the Royal Commission Reports investigating the

operation of the Contagious Diseases Acts. In these texts we

read the ambivalences, anxieties and uncertainties surrounding

the classification of fallen women, the nature of the threat

these women posed to the state, and the states' measures to

contain their threatening sexuality. These texts reveal the

extent to which Victorian narratives of fallenness relegate

working-class women to the body and deny them access to the

Word, the Truth, or to Law.

Chapter Three analyzes narratives of the fall in

Foundling Hospital petitions and three popular novels:

Elizabeth Gaskell's Ruth, George Eliot's Adam Bede, and Thomas

Hardy's Tess of the d'Urbervilles. Each of these novels

elaborates the narrative of seduction which occurs with

formulaic regularity in Foundling Hospital petitions and

details the relationship between narratives of the fall and

the restructuring of working-class motherhood and family

structures. Each of these narratives also clearly articulates

the social desire to punish women for having sex outside of

sanctioned marriage and relates premarital sex to a fall,

decay, decline.

Chapter Four examines Elizabeth Gaskell's Mary Barton and

Charles Dickens' David Copperfield for the ways in which

discourses of fallenness and family intersect imperialist

discourses and England's colonizing ventures. These novels








21

demonstrate that working-class women cannot prove themselves

respectable until they have passed the trial of temptation by

an upper-class male seducer. In one sense, the trial is as

much about class as sex; to escape the fall the woman must

shun upward mobility, must maintain her class, must refuse the

benefits of material comfort and bodily ease offered by

upper-class lovers. The sexual fall is thus a corollary to

the desire for class mobility. To be a legitimate subject, a

good working-class woman (one who is fit to take her place as

the lawful wife of one of her own class, become a good mother

to his lawful children) must seem to choose her own material

poverty and bodily exploitation. The emigration theme in both

novels reveals both an imperial racism and the threat the

colonies represented to ideas of English subjectivity.

Finally, these narratives of fallenness suggest the importance

of domesticated working-class women to middle-class homes, and

the parallel threat of middle-class women's fall: the ideology

of domesticity assigned different jobs to domesticated middle-

and working-class women, but both were expected to perform the

work appropriate to their station.

Chapter Five analyzes several working-class women's

personal narratives, among them Mary Saxby's Memoirs of a

Female Vagrant, Emma Smith's A Cornish Waif's Story, and

Hannah Cullwick's Diaries. The texts span the years 1806 to

1954. While this may at first seem to present a problem for an

interpretation of the domesticating function of Victorian









22
narratives of the fall, my analysis in fact reveals the

evolution of these narratives and their effects on working-

class women's lives. The earliest text, Saxby's Memoirs,

occupies the cusp between the Romantic and Victorian periods.

As such, Saxby's narrative both reveals vestiges of

eighteenth-century working-class sexual mores and foreshadows

the nineteenth-century's restructuring of the working-class

family. At the opposite extreme, Emma Smith's autobiography

details the success this domesticating project had achieved by

the end of the Victorian period. Born in the last decades of

the nineteenth century, Smith's autobiography was not

published until 1954, by which time she was in her late

sixties. This narrative reveals both the inculcation of

middle-class sexual and familial norms into working-class

culture and the similarities between Victorian and

contemporary discourses of sex, family, and state. Between

these, Cullwick's Diaries were written at the heart of the

Victorian period and chronicle both the transition from the

rural to the urban economies and the changes discourses of

domesticity effected in working-class women's lives. All of

these texts highlight the effects on working-class women of

narratives of fallenness, as well as the surveillance

strategies of middle-class households and the potential threat

of the legal and medical institutions legitimated by these

narratives.















CHAPTER 2
PROSTITUTION, DISEASE, AND THE IMPERIAL STATE





No one who has realized the amount
of moral evil wrought in girls ...
whose prurient desires have been
increased by Indian hemp and
partially gratified by medical
manipulations, can deny that remedy
is worse than disease. I have ...
seen young unmarried women, of the
middle-class of society, reduced by
the constant use of the speculum, to
the mental and moral condition of
prostitutes; seeking to give
themselves the same indulgence by
the practice of solitary vice; and
asking every medical practitioner
... to institute an examination of
the sexual organs.

Robert Carter On the Pathology and
Treatment of Hysteria, 1853.


Carter's quote, explicitly linking sexually out-of-

control women to the eroticized and equally uncontrollable

Indian hemp, raises important questions about the relationship

between Victorian ideologies of gender and the Imperial

project. Anne McClintock in Imperial Leather lucidly

explicates this relation:

Controlling women's sexuality, exalting maternity
and breeding a virile race of empire-builders were
widely perceived as the paramount means for
controlling the health and wealth of the male
imperial body politic, so that, by the turn of the










century, sexual purity emerged as a controlling
metaphor for racial, economic and political power.
(47)

Similarly, Edward Said argues the "counter-point between overt

patterns in British writing about Britain and representations

of the world beyond the British Isles" (Culture and

Imperialism 81). He reads in British writings "before the

great age of explicit, programmatic colonial expansion" the

colonial assumptions of "native backwardness and general

inadequacy to be independent, 'equal,' and fit" (80). He

does not, however, draw the parallel between Victorian

constructions of women's sexuality and similar constructions

of "native" sexuality. Said's argument that the discourses

devaluing the colonial subject are carried on "over an

undercurrent of sexual exaggeration" is equally applicable to

discourses constructing the English working-class, and

especially working-class women. Like "the natives," working-

class women reproduce themselves, "endlessly, sexually," and

that's all they do (Orientalism 312). There is thus a strong

relation between the Imperialist reduction of the "natives" to

sexual bodies and similar discourses reducing women to sexual

bodies.

In both discourses, "woman" and "native" are reduced to

animal bodies which reproduce, as opposed to produce. And, in

Britain's developing urban industrial economy, production is

paramount. The British subject (always read as male) produces

things; the industrial city is constructed as the progressive








25

light guiding the development of the backward oriental lands

and the discourse of science is privileged with a truth value

par excellence. British rule is based on the ideal of the

"autonomous male subject," a subject with an "authentic,

private, [and] self-regulating identity," one "capable of

deliberative moral action" (Anderson 2). The British subject,

like colonial rule, is premised upon "positive ideas of home,

of a nation and its language, of proper order, good behavior,

moral values" (Said Culture 80-81). McClintock argues that

the "trope of the organic family became invaluable in its

capacity to give state and imperial intervention the alibi of

nature" (45). The image of Britain as the paternal father

ruling "benignly over immature children" enabled "what was

often murderously violent change to be legitimized as the

progressive unfolding of natural decree" (45).

The home, behavior, and values underlying assumptions of

British superiority are, of course, those of the Victorian

domestic novel. And, of course, the mainstay of any good

home is a good woman. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak defines

"feminist individualism in the age of imperialism" as "the

making of human beings, the constitution and 'interpellation'

of the subject not only as individual but as individualist"

("Three Women's Texts" 799). In this context, the good

Victorian woman produces "domestic-society-through-sexual-

reproduction cathected as 'companionate love'." While the

good woman is busily making child-subjects at home, the








26

corollary soul-making "imperialist project cathected as civil-

society-through-social-mission" is underway abroad (799).

But the individualist middle-class woman's complicity in

colonialism requires her virtue. To be a truly good wife, the

Victorian angel, she must also be a virtuous wife: she must

not have any sexual drive of her own, but must nevertheless

make her body available to her husband to satisfy his sexual

desire; she must produce legitimate heirs for her husband; and

she must manage the social stage in which he makes business

connections, plans, deals.

"In a reciprocal process, then, middle-class women were

produced by domestic discourses even as they reproduced them

to consolidate middle-class control" (Langland 11). The

idealized English home and family "[serves as] the motive and

reward of the Empire-builder" (Bratton 78). The discourse of

"proper order, good behavior, and moral values" was a domestic

production that, to the extent that it funds Empire-building,

functions also as a cultural export.14 Ann McClintock sees

the mission station as one example of this cultural

exportation, where the "mission station became a threshold

institution for transforming domesticity rooted in European


14Ngugi Wa Thiong'o, in Decolonizing the Mind: The
Politics of Language in African Literature, discusses
imperialist impositions of culture--language, religion,
economic and moral paradigms--as a "cultural bomb." He sees
this cultural bomb as annihilating "a people's belief in their
names, in their languages, in their environment, in their
heritage of struggle, in their unity, in their capacities and
ultimately in themselves" (3).








27

gender and class roles into domesticity as controlling a

colonized people" (35). If, however, a woman does not perform

her proper work within her proper sphere, she is not a good

woman. And we see clearly the link between the bad woman and

the colonized. Like the colonized, the bad woman (the sexual

woman, the promiscuous woman, the fallen woman) is perceived

as a threat to proper order, to the middle-class family, and

thus to the state.

It is no accident, then, that Robert Carter's analysis of

uncontrollable female sexuality links the sexually out-of-

control woman to the use of Indian hemp. Sexual women, like

the oriental other, represent the threat of the irrational

animal body, the body that must be controllable, governable,

containable, and, most importantly, usable.15 Within this

ideology, sexual middle-class women are mad (as in Carter's

analysis of the hysteric) and sexual working-class women are

bad. Carter's fear is that the speculum functions as a

substitute penis, a sexual device which increases "prurient

15There are several registers at which the sexual working-
class female body's use-value can be interrupted. First,
since her employer requires almost exclusive use of her body's
labor capacity, her child-bearing immediately interrupts her
body's labor-value to her employer during her period of
confinement, and the physical and time demands of child-care
pose a long-term interruption to her labor value. If the
sexual working-class woman refuses to be governed and
controlled through domestication, she has no home-making
value. And, while it can be argued that the efforts to
organize prostitution within state-regulated brothels accede
a use-value to the purchasable woman, this value is contingent
upon her willingness to be kept out of sight, contained within
very narrow state-defined boundaries. If she refuses such
containment, her sex has no value to the state.








28

desires" in middle-class women and thus reduces them to the

"mental and moral condition of prostitutes." Women treated

with the speculum are, in fact, fallen; they are not pure. An

indication of their fallenness is the sexual desire Carter

believes the speculum exam elicits--they might try to "give

themselves the same indulgence by the practice of solitary

vice," or they might wander from doctor to doctor, "asking

every medical practitioner ... to institute an exam of the

sexual organs."

Carter's insinuation that the speculum exam elicits an

uncontainable sexual desire conflates sexual middle-class

women with prostitutes and barely conceals the threat to

sexually desiring middle-class women of losing the privilege

of their class status. And, to lose the privilege of class

was, literally, to lose legal rights. By the time of Carter's

writing, moves were already under way to strip prostitutes of

legitimate subject status; the passage of the Contagious

Diseases Acts quite literally gave ownership of women's bodies

to the medical and legal institutions. By the mid-1800's,

there is a collapse of medical and legal discourses in which

doctors and magistrates share the power to define and

incarcerate prostitutes. This collapse resulted in part from

a shared civil and military concern with the medical treatment

of venereal disease and the consequent collaboration of

military and medical institutions. As Elaine Scarry defines








29

it, "medicine and law, health and justice,16 are the

institutional elaborations of body and state (Scarry 42). It

is this institutional elaboration of the diseased female body

and the state's right to control and regulate that body for

which I read the London Lock Hospital and Asylum records.



The London Lock Hospital and Asylum



When the London Lock Hospital was first established in

1746 it treated men, women, and children diagnosed with

venereal disease primarily on an out-patient basis. The

hospital's early records indicate neither a preoccupation with

diseased women nor a strong drive towards incarcerating women

for treatment. There were wards for in-patient treatment of

the more serious cases, and there were efforts to keep men's

and women's beds separated. But there was no institutional

discourse constructing women as more dangerous than men to the

community or more in need of incarceration. Segregation

efforts focused on keeping men and women in the wards apart

and, occasionally, on keeping unmarried or "low" women

separated from the married women. The July 23, 1747 minutes


16The opponents of the Contagious Diseases Acts rally
under the cry for justice; for eradicating the injustice of
the Acts, of the sexual double standard, of state-sanctioned
vice. But the vehicle of justice is, of course, the
institution of the law, so that what is in dispute here is not
the functional apparatus of the state so much as the means by
which and the authority upon which that apparatus will be
deployed.








30

of the hospital court record a note that no men are to be

admitted to the women's ward. But the hospital seems, at

first anyway, to have been primarily concerned with a medical

treatment of the disease, not a moral reformation of the

diseased. Though the hospital did employ a chaplain, the July

4, 1748 minutes record that he was dismissed for non-

attendance. Moreover, the Hospital Court meetings did not

draw a large audience; the 1748 notes express displeasure at

the number of governors not attending meetings and a resolve

to expel those members habitually absent from meetings.

In the decade from 1746-1756 the Lock Hospital grew from

a small organization fighting problems of non-attending

chaplains and absentee governors to an institution with a

bureaucracy. The first auditing of accounts is recorded March

12, 1750, the first real abstract of accounts March 10, 1752.

Patient accounts were also recorded in the 1752 meetings.

After 1752, the administrative accounts become more detailed,

with a regular financial accounting appearing separately from

an accounting of patients treated. By March 24, 1753 the

court session minutes record an attendance of 40 (up from

eight to ten in its first years), and the minutes move from

being business notes to being self-conscious reflections of

the hospital's past and its role in the future. In short, the

Lock Hospital takes on the dimensions of an institution. The

March 1753 minutes record that the hospital has "been able to

support, maintain, and cure upwards of 1,800 patients within








31

the space of six years" and that the hospital is "out of debt

on account of building the wall to enclose the ground,

furniture, etc. and are of opinion [sic] for the future that

the annual income will be capable of maintaining many more

patients provided the building is enlarged agreeable to the

original plan."

The Court Sessions minutes record the

institutionalization of the London Lock Hospital. The

Hospital becomes "a domain in which truth teaches itself, and,

in exactly the same way, offers itself to the gaze of both the

experienced observer and the naive apprentice; for both, there

is only one language: the hospital, in which the series of

patients examined is itself a school" (Foucault Birth of the

Clinic 68). The expanded recording and codification of the

Lock hospital patient and financial accounts records both the

growing business of the hospital (it treats more patients, the

buildings are expanded) and the growing importance attached to

the observations the hospital business generates. The

hospital generates a medical discourse, a discourse evolving

from doctors' observations of groups of people gathered

together with the same disease and the ease with which

information about the disease can be gathered and shared. We

thus see in the early records of the Lock Hospital the

beginnings of the narratives of diseased women as creatures of

a different nature than diseased men. The records move from

making little distinction between diseased women and men, to








32

defining and treating diseased women much differently than

diseased men.

The Hospital and Asylum records chart the emerging

discourses constructing women as the agents of contagion and

the objects for containment. While the preamble to the 1753

subscription roll for enlarging the hospital does mark married

women and children as particularly pitiful sufferers of

venereal disease, it does not construct women as the principal

objects through which to study or control the spread of

venereal disease. If anything, the text implies that diseased

men represent the greatest threat to the community, especially

in its focus on children who have been infected by adults:

Whereas it appears by report of the committee
appointed to audit the Treasurer's Accounts for the
year last past, that upwards of 1800 patients have
been cured in this hospital since the first
reception of patients from January 31st 1746 to
March 10 1753. Amongst which were great numbers of
married women injured by bad husbands, others were
infected by suckling distempered children, children
born with the disease, others imbibed it from their
nurses, but upwards of sixty children from two to
ten years old have suffered by ways little
suspected by the generality of mankind, visited]
by adults in hopes to get rid of the disease, by
infecting of sound persons even these little
innocents, it appeared likewise that great numbers
of these miserable distressed objects were
frequently refused admission into the hospital for
want of room and most likely many of them perished
for want of timely relief.1T

While gender was a minimal factor in the early records of

the London Lock Hospital, by the mid-1800's the governors

17It was a commonly held belief that persons infected with
a venereal disease could cure themselves by having sex with an
uninfected child.








33

appeal for increased building space becomes highly gendered.

Women are now marked, not only as special objects through

which to study venereal disease, but as specific embodiments

of disease. Indeed, the history of the London Lock Hospital

mirrors the history of the clinic Foucault outlines. Foucault

notes that in the eighteenth century the clinic becomes "a way

of learning and seeing" (Birth of the Clinic 64), and that

"the formation of the clinical method was bound up with the

emergence of the doctor's gaze into the field of signs and

symptoms" (91). The eighteenth-century clinic effaces the

seventeenth-century distinction between signs and symptoms,

privileging the doctor's reading of the signifiers of disease

(sign and symptom) for what is signified--the essence of the

disease (91). The doctor's reading of the signifiers of

disease becomes the medical history. "In clinical medicine,

to be seen and to be spoken immediately communicate in the

manifest truth of the disease of which it is precisely the

whole being. There is disease only in the element of the

visible and therefore statable" (95). Similarly, the

eighteenth-century clinical experience and practice of the

London Lock Hospital resulted in the tendency to see female

sexuality as the sign of disease. By the time of the 1854

annual report, the governor's plans to expand the hospital

embody a specific desire to incarcerate and contain the spread

of disease through infected women. A larger hospital would:

Place at the disposal of the governors many more
wings and wards, and so enable them to greatly










increase the number of female (italics mine)
patients as well as to improve the classification
of them. The necessity of a proper classification
of the patients presses itself strongly on the
minds of the governors; for it will be recollected
that it is not the profligate only, the degraded,
or the immoral, that seek refuge and are received
into this institution, but often the most urgent as
well as the most pitiable objects of its care are
those who are free from criminality--married women
and helpless children being frequently found in its
wards, and at present the governors are not able to
make any or at least very little distinction. They
feel that this state of things ought not any longer
to exist; and they therefore regard with much
pleasure the near prospect of being able to
appropriate separate rooms for such superior cases.

The superior cases (virtuous married women) must be separated

from possible moral contagion by the inferior cases (unmarried

women, fallen women). The 1857 annual report laments that:

The Hospital, in its present state, does not permit
of any proper classification of the patients. The
married woman of unblemished reputation is of
necessity placed in the same ward with those whose
past life bears the deep stain of infamy and
immorality. It is, therefore, highly desirable
that, as soon as may be, adequate provision should
be made for a complete classification of the
patients by an extension of the Hospital. Such a
separation as will remove the virtuous from the
society of the immoral, and will preserve the young
and less hardened from the evil influence and
artifices of the more corrupt, is a matter of the
highest importance, and demands, not only the
earnest attention of your Board, but also the
generous sympathy and support of the public.

Here we must note that the Lock Hospital patients were

primarily working-class women. Middle-class patients still

received their medical care in their homes by their attending

physicians. This fear of virtuous women being corrupted by

the pernicious influences of diseased women is an important

counter-strain to the Victorian belief that respectable upper








35

and middle-class women were the most appropriate ministers to

the needs of the fallen. This belief held that the innate

virtue of the angel-in-the-house protected her from the

contaminating influence of the sexual woman. This is not so

much of a paradox as it might first appear. Clearly, it is

the middle-class woman who is impervious to corruption, and it

is her class position that guarantees her virtue. The

virtuous working-class woman is good by virtue of not having

yet fallen, though her "fall" is the always-present

possibility upon which her virtue is established. A working-

class woman's virtue could be called into question if she

transgressed the bourgeois code of sexual conduct or if she

resisted the industrial/capitalist demand on her labor. On

the first register, premarital sexual relations, common-law

unions, serial monogamy, illegitimate children, and cross-

class sexual relations mark a woman as fallen; on the second,

the desire for vertical social mobility, including expensive

clothes and fashion accessories, lodgings, furniture, good and

plentiful food, money, servants, horses, carriages, and the

like constitute fallenness. In short, working-class women's

fall exists as both the fall into sexuality and the

transgression of class boundaries.

While the 1857 annual report laments the hospital's

inability to protect (through segregation) virtuous working-

class women from the pernicious effects of association with

fallen women, it also acknowledges that "four-fifths of the








36

patients have had at least an elementary education" and thus

they "cannot [charge] their fall to ignorance solely. The

education of the masses is rather deficient in kind than in

extent. It is a training of the mind, not of the heart." In

other words, fallen women need the proper religio-social

indoctrination. This belief in the need to reform, reclaim,

and properly train fallen women becomes a central organizing

trope of the Lock Hospital/Asylum Institution. The

reformatory was established in July of 1787. The Centenary

Report for the London Lock Hospital Asylum declares the

Asylum's mission that of checking "the progress of this

enormous evil [of prostitution]." Prostitutes are the

"miserable ... unhappy women who disgrace our streets, and

subsist upon the wages of iniquity. ... They throng our

streets, lie in wait for the incautious, and corrupt the

rising generation; evil habits are early contracted, ruinous

connexions formed, conscience and the sense of shame subdued,

and our youths trained up to profligacy. ... We may, without

exaggeration, assert, that a common prostitute is an evil in

the community not dissimilar to that of a person infected with

the plague; who, miserable herself, is daily communicating the

contagion to others, that will propagate still wider the fatal

malady. 1"

18Apparently, middle-class men do not share middle-class
women's imperviousness to the contaminating influences of the
sexual woman. Newspapers, religious and social tracts,
medical and scientific journals of the period, were full of
the fear of the sons of the middle-class being corrupted by










Imperialism, Class, Gender and Disease


There are two levels at which this rhetoric works. The

first links prostitutes with the fears of contagion,

particularly from the lower classes. The second links the

fear of venereal disease and the fallen woman to threats of

foreign invasion, including the effects of war and a fear of

reverse colonization. The rhetoric linking venereal disease

to the plague is rooted in the cholera epidemics of the

nineteenth century, particularly the 1830's epidemics and the

sanitary measures to improve hygiene that grew out of the fear


fallen women--made immoral, given disease, ruined by lust.
Curiously, stories in which middle-class men corrupt (seduce,
morally or physically "contaminate") working-class women are
notably absent. Popular narratives in which helpless domestic
servants are seduced by their employers and employers' sons
generally feature upper, not middle-class homes and seducers.
This is particularly significant given that it is precisely
the rise of the middle-class that made domestic service the
number one employment for women "throughout the nineteenth
century and until the First World War" (Burnett 136). That
these narratives still feature the aristocracy as the
villainous seducers seems to correlate with Nancy Armstrong's
argument that early middle-class discourses wresting power
from the aristocracy leveled "charges of violence and
corruption against the old aristocracy" (18). While several
religious and philanthropical groups (including the Ladies'
National Association) did charge middle-class men with
corrupting innocent working-class girls, this did not become
a popular story. This slippage suggests that the seducing
rake story marks an anxiety about culpability--just who does
corrupt whom? Statistically, the middle-class employed the
preponderance of domestic servants, suggesting that middle-,
not upper-class men, would be the logical "seducers." The
seducing rake story thus marks an anxiety of culpability while
paradoxically allowing middle-class men to avoid
responsibility for the sexual exploitation of their servants
and maintaining middle-class men as victims of the sexually
contaminating fallen woman. This narrative gap, then, allows
the sexualized working-class woman to remain a more or less
uncontested threat to middle-class subjectivity.








38

of contamination and the spread of disease by unsanitary

conditions. The lower classes were seen as threatening

cesspools of disease and contagion. Inflammatory rhetoric

about "the ingression of a disease, which threatens, with a

stealthy step, to invade the sanctity of the domestic circle"

prompted, "in anticipation of the invasion of cholera, the

inspections of the streets and houses of large towns"

(Shuttleworth 11). According to James Kay Shuttleworth, and

important figure in Victorian social and sanitary reform

efforts, "the dense masses of the habitations of the poor," in

which "the incurable ills of society rankled, beyond the reach

of sanative interference," could be "unconsciously conveyed

from those haunts of beggary where it is rife, into the most

still and secluded retreat of refinement" (11-12). The

discourse of the Lock Hospital and Asylum collapses the

boundary between prostitution and poverty; it constructs women

as infectious and conflates venereal infection with the

plague. "The prostitute" becomes, literally, "an evil"

similar to the plague who communicates her misery to the

unsuspecting and incautious.

What's more, the diseased prostitute is linked to the

foreign other. The prostitute "corrupts the rising

generation," debilitating the English race. This discourse

invokes the fear of the unchecked prostitute "propogat[ing]

still wider the fatal malady," rhetorically tying the

prostitute to racial Armageddon. The 1858 annual report notes








39

that the "Indian mutiny" caused financial hardship to the

institution. The same report makes an urgent case for a

separate male hospital and for expanded space to allow the

separation of superior (married and therefore innocent)

victims from inferior (unmarried and therefore fallen)

corrupters. This link between the need to contain the

colonized Indians and the need to categorize (and thus contain

the contaminating threat of) fallen women suggests a

relationship between British military campaigns abroad and

state controls of women's sexuality at home. Both are

sustained by the fear of racial degeneration. The report goes

on to say that "it is evident that if allowed to spread

uncontrolled, this disease leads to the physical as well as

the moral deterioration of our race: if not checked, its fatal

effects are transmitted to successive generations, and are

evinced in the depopulation of a country, or in the want of

physical energy of its inhabitants." We read further in this

report an even more amplified fear of the English race

weakened by the encroaching other--the diseased prostitute,

the urban poor, the colonized:

Should the time ever arise when, from the continued
absence of sanitary regulations, the enervating and
unopposed results of this malady, transmitted
through successive periods, shall become as widely
diffused in this as in some other countries, we may
no longer be able to boast of our national energy
or character, or our power of physical endurance.

Here, the results of venereal disease threaten to make England

like "some other countries," i.e., the corrupted and diseased








40

colonies. Disease threatens the national character and

physical body of England itself. Similarly, the 1860 report

says: "The time is long past when society could afford to

blind itself to the social evils, more destructive than open

war, which sap its strength and undermine its very existence."

This rhetoric conflates disease, death, decay, and decline

with war, foreign enemies and invasion. It constructs

contamination and invasion as imminent dangers, and

strategically deploys this inflammatory discourse to enact

legislation uniting the medical and police institutions in a

network of surveillance and control over working-class women.

Thus the prostitute becomes the symbol of the need for

state control and regulation, both at the domestic level (the

working-classes must be sanitized, disease must be contained)

and at the national level (she is linked to the backward

native, threatens the potency of the English race). The

rhetoric likens working-class slums to the uncivilized

colonies and makes it the business of the capitalist state to

impose order and good government on the disorderly and

mismanaged poor. According to Shuttleworth's 1832 study The

Moral and Physical Condition of the Working Classes, "moral

and physical degradation are inseparable from barbarism" (78).

It is "the cultivation of the faculties, the extension of

knowledge, the improvement of the arts" that "enable man to

extend his dominion over matter" (79). There is a "natural

progress of barbarous habits" in which "want of cleanliness,









41

of forethought, and economy, are found in almost invariable

alliance with dissipation, reckless habits, and disease" (81).

Thus the working class, as the dirty, uncivilized barbarians,

must be managed, regulated, schooled, taught, governed, by the

civilized middle class. This rhetoric moralized poverty,

always seeing poverty as a sign of moral degeneracy and

intellectual inferiority. Thus, when Shuttleworth, whose

tract is full of the praises of capitalism, describes the

abominable living conditions of the poor in Parliament Street,

Manchester, he makes these conditions their fault:

There is only one privy for three hundred and
eighty inhabitants, which is placed in a narrow
passage, whence its effluvia infest the adjacent
houses, and must prove a most fertile source of
disease. In this street also, cesspools with open
grids have been made close to the doors of the
houses, in which disgusting refuse accumulates, and
whence its noxious effluvia constantly exhale.
(36).

This picture of the stagnant miasma--the noxious effluvia of

the overflowing privy and open cesspools--is linked to a moral

miasma, and the prostitute becomes the symbol par excellence

of contagion. As David Trotter explains in Circulation:

Defoe, Dickens, and the Economies of the Novel, "the

prostitute becomes the cesspool, the point in the system where

refuse accumulates and disease flourishes. Like a drain, her

body must be cleared regularly, and not left to fester. The

metaphor identifies her, but not her clients; she alone,

therefore, bears the responsibility for syphilis" (75).









42
Despite the horror with which working-class living

conditions are described and the fear in which they are held,

Shuttleworth still maintains that "the unsheltered, naked

savage, starving on food common to the denizens of the

wilderness, never knew the comforts contained in the most

wretched cabin of our poor" (78). According to Shuttleworth,

it is not the conditions of an industrial capitalist state

that create the horror of the living conditions he describes,

but the moral and intellectual deficiency of the working

classes who have not properly reaped the civilizing rewards of

capitalism. In fact, civilization itself demands the spread

of capitalism and domestic economy:

When, therefore, every zone has contributed its
most precious stores--science has revealed her
secret laws--genius has applied the mightiest
powers of nature to familiar use, making matter the
patient and silent slave of the will of man--if
want prey upon the heart of the people, we may
strongly presume that, besides the effects of
existing manners, some accidental barrier exists,
arresting their natural and rightful supply. (79)

Thus, "the evils affecting the working classes, so far

from being the necessary results of the commercial system,

furnish evidence of a disease which impairs its energies, if

it does not threaten its vitality" [italics in original] (79).

There is a fear that the "other" is a disease inside of

Britain itself, and that the unordered contaminating other

threatens to burst the boundaries containing it and spill into

the orderly halls of industrial capitalist British government.

This other could be the laborer challenging industrialization,








43

an undomesticated female sexuality, or the colonized

rebelling. The prostitute, as the uncontainable body, is the

untechnologized other, the one who needs the rational

scientific governance of men/law/Britain and industry. She

stands as the emblem of mismanagement, squalor, filth and

disease, all of the things antithetical to proper order and

economic prosperity. The "most pressing necessities of the

poor" can be relieved only by "first ... a well-regulated

charity, and secondarily, by instruction in domestic economy--

exhortations to industry--admonition concerning the

consequences of vice, and by obtaining work for the deserving

and unemployed" (Shuttleworth 66). Thus the eradication of

poverty and vice hinges upon women's domestic virtues.


Restructuring the Working-Class Family


Donzelot argues that the new family structure of the

modern state required the middle-class's active construction

of a feminine ideal for the working-class:

Woman, the housewife and attentive mother, was
man's salvation, the privileged instrument for
civilizing the working class. It sufficed merely
to shape her to this use, to furnish her with the
necessary instruction, to instill in her the
elements of a tactics of devotion, in order for her
to stamp out the spirit of independence in the
working man. (Donzelot 36)

And, in fact, Shuttleworth laments that "the early age at

which girls are admitted into the factories, prevents their

acquiring much knowledge of domestic economy; and even

supposing them to have had accidental opportunities of making








44

this acquisition, the extent to which women are employed in

the mills, does not, even after marriage, permit the general

application of its principles" (69).

Those "most pressing necessities of the poor," then, can

be taken care of by the domestic labors of a good woman, while

poverty and vice will perpetuate themselves as long as

working-class women are wayward. And, more specifically, the

working-class woman must be a good mother. The working-class

woman whose wage-labor prohibits her from nursing her own

children does the most grievous harm, as her children are then

given to wet-nurses, "abandoned to one whose sympathies are

not interested in its welfare." Children so "abandoned" are

"ill-fed, dirty, ill-clothed, exposed to cold and neglect; and

in consequence, more than one-half of the offspring of the

poor (as may be proved by the bills of mortality of the town)

die before they have completed their fifth year" (70).

Interestingly, Shuttleworth overlooks the economic necessity

that forces women to place their children with wet-nurses:

neither they nor their children can survive unless they work,

but, in order to work, somebody else must assume child-care

responsibilities. He sees little relation between inadequate

wages, poor living conditions, and poverty. He sees poverty

as its own disease, the result of vice and immoral behavior.

To correct the causes of poverty, Shuttleworth proposes

institutionalized schooling. In the schools:

All the children of the poor are rescued from
ignorance, and from the effects of that bad










example, to which they are now subjected in the
crowded lanes of our cities.
With a general system of education, we hope
will also be introduced institutions, in which the
young females of the poor may be instructed in
Domestic Economy, and where those pernicious
traditional prejudices, which, combined with
neglect, occasion the great mortality of their
children, may be removed, and they may receive
wholesome advice concerning their duties as wives
and mothers. (71-72)

The Contagious Diseases Acts and Woman's Animal Body


Thus the fallen woman becomes a symbolically charged

site, associated with the dirt of the lower classes, epidemic

disease and contamination, and the decline of the English

race--responsible for this decline both by spreading disease

and contagion and by bearing weakened offspring, "one-half of

whom die before they reach the age of five years"

(Shuttleworth 11). This is the context out of which the

Contagious Diseases Acts grew. Judith Walkowitz, the

definitive source for historical study of the Contagious

Diseases Acts, summarizes them:

The Contagious Diseases Acts of 1864, 1866, and
1869 were introduced as exceptional legislation to
control the spread of venereal disease among
enlisted men in garrison towns and ports. By 1869,
they were in operation in eighteen "subjected
districts." Under the acts, a woman could be
identified as a "common prostitute" by a special
plainclothes policeman and then subjected to a
fortnightly internal examination. If found
suffering from gonorrhea or syphilis, she would be
interned in a certified lock hospital (a hospital
containing venereal wards) for a period not to
exceed nine months. The definition of common
prostitute was vague, and consequently the
metropolitan police employed under the acts had
broad discretionary powers. When accosted by the










police, a woman was expected to submit voluntarily
to the medical and police registration system or
else be brought before the local magistrates. If
brought to trial for refusing to comply, the woman
bore the burden of proving that she was virtuous--
that she did not go with men, whether for money or
not. (Walkowitz 2)

A repeal movement, fueled in large part by the Ladies'

National Association, eventually resulted in a series of Royal

Commission investigations into the operations of the Acts.

The narrative of these investigations reveals the extent to

which the category of "prostitute" is a construction used to

police the working classes. It is precisely the issue of the

visibility of the prostitute body that organizes both the

enactment of and the opposition to the Contagious Diseases

Acts. The visibility of the prostitute body, the public

body, is read as an offense to the domestic woman's body, the

private body. Moreover, the metonymic substitution of disease

for the prostitute/public body becomes the raison d'etre for

both the legal-medical purging/cure/removal and the religious

reform/purification/cleansing of that body. The same logic

organizing the enactment of the CDA's also organized the

opposition to them. The drive to "reclaim" the prostitute, to

"restore" her, rests on the denial of the materiality of the

body: the "virtuous" woman is the pure woman, the woman not

fallen into her sex, her body, and the "fallen" woman is her

sex, her body. The fallacy of this logic assumes a "self"

that is not "body," and the visibility of the prostitute body









47
is as much a threat to opponents' self-construction as it is

for the proponents'.


The Word, the Law, and the Truth


Within this construction, the sexualized woman is the animal

body with no access to the word, the law, or legitimate

subject status. Truth (a product of the knowing word and

determined by the system of law) is not something the

prostitute can tell; her only truth is in her body, but that

truth must be read by the legitimate subject with access to

language and law. Walkowitz notes that "the failure to

provide a statutory definition of the common prostitute is

consistent with the traditional legal treatment in Britain of

women and outcast groups--as the "other," an entirely negative

and collective presence before the law" (Walkowitz 87). And,

as Page duBois argues in Torture and Truth, "the logic of our

philosophical tradition, of some or our inherited beliefs

about truth, leads almost inevitably to conceiving of the body

of the other as the site from which truth can be produced, and

to using violence if necessary to extract that truth" (6).19


19duBois' elaborates the argument that "the very idea of
truth we receive from the Greeks, those ancestors whom Allan
Bloom names for us, is inextricably linked with the practice
of torture, which has almost always been the ultimate attempt
to discover a secret 'always out of reach'" (7). She argues
that "since we are descended from this noble ancient culture,
from the inventors of philosophy and democracy, we see
ourselves as privileged, as nobly obliged to guide the whole
benighted world toward Western culture's version of democracy
and enlightenment" (4). duBois problematizes the West's self-
privileging, calling for an understanding that "there is more










Thus, what is really at stake in the investigations is a

validation of the law, an affirmation of the rational premises

of that law, and a reassertion of the "truth" of the good

master/ruler upon which that law is founded. While the

investigation is overburdened with police reports of the

surveillance and arrest of prostitutes, medical returns of

their gynecological exams, and renditions of their "stories,"

not one woman labeled and "disciplined" as a "prostitute"

represents herself in the inquiry. They are the silent

outsiders to whom the legitimate speech of the institution is

not accessible, and the stories represented are not the


at stake in our recognition of this history than
antiquarianism, than complacency about our advances from
barbarism to civilization. That truth is unitary, that truth
may finally be extracted by torture, is part of our legacy
from the Greeks and, therefore, part of our idea of 'truth'"
(4-5). She examines the structure of truth in Greek law,
understandings of slavery and freedom, torture, and writing.
I draw a parallel between the slave body and the prostitute
body. While this is not an exact correlation, I believe
duBois' argument points to important aspects of Victorian
constructions of "prostitute": that prostitutes cannot tell
the truth; that their bodies must tell the truth of their
vice, of their disease, and their threat; that the medical and
legal institutions must extract truth from the prostitute;
that the truth extracted alleviates anxieties about the
possibility of, as Anderson terms it, "attenuated autonomy and
fractured identity" (2). Thus, where duBois argues that the
"desire to uncover the truth of the difference between slavery
and freedom constitutes part of the discourse on torture in
the ancient world" (47), I would argue that debates over state
practices regulating prostitution mark a cultural anxiety
about subjectivity in the modern world. Whereas duBois sees
that "the slave's truth is the master's truth; it is in the
body of the slave that the master's truth lies, and it is in
torture that his truth is revealed" (66), I argue that
constructions of prostitute tell a part of the truth about the
rise of the modern state: legitimacy is defined against the
prostitute body, and it is by controlling the prostitute body
that legitimate subject status is secured.









49

women's but a rendition that serves the purposes of the

parties to this performance. Within this dramatization of the

issues surrounding the Contagious Diseases Acts, the only

voices representing themselves are, in fact, "legitimate"

voices. Both poles of the discourse participate in what

Pierre Bourdieu calls the "monopoly of legitimate symbolic

violence" (239). All parties involved in this discursive

production of "truth" are already legitimate speakers in that

they already have access to the institutions of language and

law, and this access grounds them as intrinsically dominating

to those about whom and on whose behalf they pronounce. As

Bourdieu says:

The use of language, the manner as much as the
substance of discourse, depends on the social
position of the speaker, which governs the access
he can have to the language of the institution,
that is, to the official, orthodox and legitimate
speech. It is the access to the legitimate
instruments of expression, and therefore the
participation in the authority of the institution,
which makes all the difference. (109)

In this sense, then, all the speakers involved in this drama

possess a linguistic competence which is a "statutory

capacity" (Bourdieu 69). The statutory capacity of the

legitimate speaker makes his speech performative in that it

claims (and effectively claims to the extent that he is a

recognized agent of the state) to hold over dominated

individuals the "potential jurisdiction of formal law"

(Bourdieu 71).









50
The truth produced is, while different in specific ways,

fundamentally the same truth for both the recognized agents of

the state (police, medical and legal institutions) and those

claiming to oppose the recognized agents of the state (LNA,

church groups, repeal and reform activists). Both produce

themselves as legitimate rulers-masters, those who know what

to do with the "prostitutes," how to solve the problem of
"prostitution." All parties to the investigation share the

state's language, uncritically constructing "prostitute" as a

category and "the prostitute" as an object for intervention.

They share the language of disease, the construction of

"prostitute" as a category authorizing intervention into

working-class women's lives (whether medical, legal, moral,

or religious), and the consensus that something must be done

with these women. This construction is a symbolic imposition

of official naming, and as such, both the opponents and the

proponents of the Acts are members of the same linguistic

community and share the "monopoly of legitimate symbolic

violence."

The drama of the investigation involves a performance in

which the official language of the state (legal, medical,

class) reauthorizes itself. This reauthorization is a

production that begins with the legitimacy of the language

(the Contagious Diseases Acts) being called into question.

This performance succeeds to the extent that the institutions

of the state--the court and the hospital--are "capable of









51

imposing universal recognition of the dominant language."

This type of linguistic community "is the condition for the

establishment of relations of linguistic domination" (Bourdieu

45-46). Judging from the results of the 1871 Royal Commission

Investigation, the performance did succeed in "imposing

universal recognition of the dominant language." The

Committee was satisfied that "the police are not chargeable

with any abuse of their authority, and that they have hitherto

discharged a novel and difficult duty with moderation and

caution" (7). The primary truth produced in these

investigations, then, (reproduced in the testimony of the bulk

of the "witnesses" and the product of the investigation) is

the "truth" of working-class woman's diseased sex, the "truth"

of the prostitute. While there is some dispute among the

contestants as to whom and under what circumstances women

should be defined as "prostitute," as to what constitutes

valid evidence, as to the agents who should be authorized to

dispose of the women, and as to the proper disposition of the

women, there is no dispute about the category itself. Both

the proponents and the opponents of the Acts participate in an

"official naming, a symbolic act of imposition which has on

its side all the strength of the collective, of the consensus,

of common sense, because it is performed by a delegated agent

of the state, that is, the holder of the monopoly of

legitimate symbolic violence" (Bourdieu 239).









52
Nevertheless, the most obvious and the most readily

recognizable as official agents of the state and official

speakers are the doctors and the police. No matter what

challenges are presented to the "evidence" or "testimony" of

these "officials," the investigating commission clearly

positions itself as aligned with the word of these agents.

For example, in the cross-examination of Police Constable S.R.

Anniss by Committee Chair William Nathaniel Massey, Massey

says to Anniss:

Now I must ask you a question which the
respectability of your character and the manner in
which you have given your evidence makes it very
disagreeable to me to put, but it is my duty to do
so, because a statement has been made that you and
your officers have conducted yourselves with
indecency and have used foul language in
discharging your duty towards these unfortunate
women. Now I must ask you whether this statement
is true. (310)20

Anniss categorically denies the accusations, and his word is

indisputable evidence for the commission. Moreover, the

police are represented as having a special knowledge, a

knowledge to which those accusing the police of wrong-doing

have no access. Accusations against the police are


20Anniss is responding to the accusation that the
metropolitan police conducted night arrests of women they
suspected of prostitution. At these arrests, the police are
accused of entering the bedrooms, trying to catch women in
bed, of forcibly pulling the bed covers from the women,
sexually harassing the women, and being verbally and
physically violent with the women. An interesting addendum to
this accusation is the statistic, cited by Francis Finnegan in
Poverty and Prostitution, that police represented one-sixth of
the prostitutes' business in York. (122)









53

represented as ignorant, statements which lack knowledge or

evidence, and are therefore unsubstantiable. As Anniss

explains the accusations of police abuse, the accusers are,

first, "led away by the stories of these poor fallen women"

(312) and, secondly, "unacquainted with police regulations"

(312). Such people "know nothing about the subtlety of these

poor creatures, and [are] therefore led away by them, and it

is something dreadful to repeat their statements in the way it

has been done, and thereby mislead the credulous" (312). The

prostitutes, of course, are configured as only capable of

lying. Anniss says over and over again, "what these women say

cannot and must not be taken into account ... I would not

speak after or move on anything a prostitute would say ...

we could not rely or act on what prostitutes say" (22). Like

the slave in duBois' analysis of the Athenian court, the

prostitute cannot reveal a truth through the word, only

through her body.

Even those supposedly advocating on behalf of the

prostitutes as a rule reject the authority of the prostitute's

word (with the notable exception of Josephine Butler). For

example, the Reverend Lowry says that "I have heard the

stories by which some have been induced to become prostitutes,

but I have never sought much on that point, because I have

never thought it very trustworthy." Furthermore, he says that

he "could not rely on" their self-representations (324). Even

when their stories are accepted, the prostitute's word must be








54

tested for its truth. Unlike the word of the police or the

doctor, the truth of which is self-evident, the word of the

prostitute is always under suspicion. "Do you believe all

these girls tell you?" Do you think you can rely on what

these girls tell you?" are common questions put to those who

position themselves as representing the women brought under

the Acts. Even when Rev. A. Lowry objected to an incident in

which the police's refused to believe a woman who claimed to

have been wrongly accused of and detained for prostitution,

his objection was on the grounds that the woman's word was not

sufficiently tested. He thinks it disgraceful that the police

did not attempt to prove or disprove the validity of her

story. It was "a most disgraceful thing that policeman before

he had finished examining the girl told her, 'I do not believe

a word that you say.' How had he any opportunity of testing

whether what she said was true or false when he said he did

not believe her statement" (325). Clearly, the problem is NOT

that the woman in question is suspected of lying--Lowry, too,

suspects "prostitutes" of lying. Neither party accepts the

women's word as sufficient or, as with the word of the police,

as proof in itself.

In this configuration of the prostitute, then, she has no

access to the word, to truth, or the law. She is reduced to

an animal body, incapable of speaking a truth, always

dangerous and a threat to the moral order and physical

integrity of the English nation. Mr. W. H. Sloggett,









55
physician to the London Lock Hospital, testifies before the

commission that "every woman being a prostitute may be

suspected of being diseased at any moment" (141). What's

more, this disease may escape detection, be festering and

infecting innocent men without their knowing it. As M.M.

Moore, surgeon to the London Lock Hospital in 1862, says:

I believe cases of syphilis may escape for a week
or so, or perhaps more. A woman may contract
syphilis the day after she leaves the hospital, and
during all the remainder of the fortnight she may
be spreading it abroad amongst the people ... so
that if the plague were not stayed by artificial
means it would be continually as it were
reengendering itself. (76-77)

The figure of the diseased prostitute lurking about, ready to

spread contagion to unsuspecting men, invoked a fear used to

legitimate forced surveillance and medical detention of any

women suspected of prostitution. Not only must this disease

be searched out and confined, it must be described, charted,

relished in its vileness:

Commissioner: Now if a woman is sent into a
hospital with a uterine discharge, or abrasion, or
ulceration of the cervix, on what data would you
form an opinion as to whether that was a contagious
disease within the meaning of the Acts?
Moore: Well looking at these things alone and not
knowing any history of secondary syphilis referring
to that woman, I should say, I think they are
contagious, because they are prostitutes. I
believe the diseases are contagious. I think the
discharge is contagious and the ulceration of the
{?} is contagious, because the women are
prostitutes, and out plying their trade.
Commissioner: Then you would not say there is
anything in the nature of these discharges in
themselves which would enable you to state whether
they were symptoms of contagion or not?
Moore: Not of themselves. I would say this, in
fact I know, that in a prostitute there is a










discharge from the uterus, a purulent discharge,
which is never or very seldom indeed present in a
virtuous woman. (81)

In a miraculous feat of warped logic, then, women were

forcibly locked in hospitals on the basis of symptoms which

could not be with any certainty defined as contagious disease.

What's more, they were defined as diseased because they had

previously been defined as prostitutes. (And both

definitions, as I have already demonstrated, are arbitrary

constructions, acts of violent symbolic imposition which

result in violent medical detention.) This diagnosis of

disease is a moral, not a medical one. Similarly, the

definition of prostitution was a moral, not a legal, one.

Women were subject to detention for prostitution on the

discretion and at the whim of the medical police, a legal-

medical body given authority over working-class women's

bodies. These women had no legal rights once detained. As

Anniss explained it, women who did not voluntarily submit

themselves for examination could be "taken before the

magistrate and punished" (49). Once confined to the hospital,

"No woman is to be discharged within ten days of her admission

to the Lock wards, without the opinion of the visiting surgeon

being first taken" (71). But even women whose symptoms could

not be classified as contagious were, as a matter of course,

locked up. Pickthorn notes that:

In performing my duty ... I have looked on all
ulceration of the genitals in prostitutes, women
having indiscriminate intercourse, as dangerous. I
think the Commission will agree that it is safe to










leave it to the resident surgeon afterwards, when
they come under his treatment, whether they are
actually virulent or not, but if they are pouring
out puss, and that is from the vagina, I conceive
that contact is unsafe for the man ... I think in a
prostitute all those ulcerations are dangerous.
(46)

It is important to note that, in this discourse, a prostitute

is a woman "having indiscriminate intercourse."

"Indiscriminate intercourse" could mean anything from serial

monogamy to premarital sex with one's fianc6. And, according

to Victorian medical definitions, women with yeast infections

could be sent to the hospital, from which they could not be

discharged in less than ten days and were more often kept for

periods up to several months.

Many women, of course, rebelled. Mr. S. Wolferstan

testified that a "considerable number" of women were sent to

prison while he was at the Albert Hospital, "principally for

the offenses of running away from the hospital without being

discharged therefrom, and making disturbances in the wards of

the hospital" (117). These women responded to more than the

forced detention, to more than the barbarisms passing as

medical treatment. They also responded to being reduced to

animal, bestial bodies upon whom any action was justified.

The construction of the sexual woman's body as animal and

subhuman justifies any forced medical procedure the state, for

its due safety, sees fit to render. Commissioner Applegarth

asks: "Do you suppose there is any treatment to which they

could be subjected that really would degrade them beyond the









58
one to which they are degraded at the present time?" (292).

The question here, of course, presupposes the answer: NO.

Penetration is penetration, by penis or speculum; a sexually

active working-class woman is a penetrable body and can thus

have no logical objection to a speculum exam.

And, as we have seen, sexual women cannot be good

mothers. The pregnant fallen woman is a particularly

abominable beast. As Pickthorn says:"The fact is this, some

of these pregnant women are the worst of the prostitutes, and

have up to the very time of confinement connection with more

than one man in a night very likely, and to talk of a small

speculum hurting them when that is the case, I certainly think

is mis-stating the fact" (46). The pregnant sexual woman,

flying as she does in the face of the ideology of the domestic

woman, becomes a particular object of scorn.

This construction of the prostitute as a lying,

unfeeling, subhuman animal body with no rights also justified

a complete surveillance network with which to hunt them down.

This surveillance made every woman the appropriate object of

the police/medical gaze. (Olive Shcreiner was once detained

under these Acts, evidence that no woman in public space was

immune to the penetrative police gaze.) Additionally, there

was no clear definition of prostitution, so all working-class

women were subject to interrogation and arrest. Anniss

testifies that "In the case of a woman occasionally committing

herself with men, if we were to be acquainted with it, we








59

should, being governed by circumstances, endeavor to bring her

under the Act" (16). The official criteria for establishing

a woman as a prostitute were:

The tests of prostitution relied upon by the police
are stated by them to be as follows:--residence in
a brothel; solicitation in the streets; frequenting
places where prostitutes resort; being informed
against by soldiers and sailors; and lastly the
admission of the woman herself. (6)

These criteria give rise to enormous ambiguity. A

brothel could be defined as a lodging house in which

prostitutes were known to reside. But, since any poor urban

housing area could at various times have rooms let to women

making their living selling their sexual labor, as well as to

women selling their manual labor in sweatshops and factories,

"residence in a brothel" is hardly a specific charge.

Similarly, "solicitation" could mean speaking to a man in the

streets, and "frequenting places where prostitutes resort"

could mean walking home from work through Regent Street or

Piccadilly Circus. Moreover, "police often acted upon the

information obtained from the men in hospital" and forcibly

arrested women accused of giving infected men a venereal

disease (6).

The practice of arresting women on the reports of

diseased soldiers was a well established method of

surveillance in Malta, the first overseas military port to

come under the operation of the Acts. In Malta, "whenever a

man contracted any form of venereal disease in the fleet, the

ship's corporal generally took him to the place where he








60

contracted it, and any woman he reported as having given him

the disease was at once taken before the surgeon for

examination" (48). This discourse does not acknowledge the

possibility that a man may already have been infected and that

he thus spread the disease to women with whom he had sex.

While the role of military men spreading venereal disease was

a theme in repeal movement discourse, it held absolutely no

legitimacy within the medical/military/legal discourse of the

CDA. McClintock offers an interesting perspective on this,

arguing that "the Acts were designed less to abolish

prostitution than to place control of sex work in the hands of

the male state. The initial impetus came from the recent

blows to male national self-esteem in the arena of empire"

(288) .21

This lack of definition about who was and wasn't a

prostitute and the unreliable methods of informing against and

spying on women clearly enough demonstrate the extent to which

all women were possible targets of police arrest and medical

detention. But the full extent to which working-class women


211 find McClintock's argument most interesting in its
link between military failure overseas and the domestic
treatment of women. This relation between sexual violence
towards women and national and gender identity is important.
We see manifestations of this in everything from rape as a
tactic to war (doesn't Bosnia loom largely in all of our
minds?) to programmatic opposition to and sexual harassment of
women in the only-now expanding male enclave of the military.
However, I do not accept McClintock's too-easy equation of
"male" and "state." As I have already argued, I would place
the largely women-run opposition to the Contagious Diseases
Acts in the category of state agency.








61

are conflated with the diseased animal body of the prostitute

is perhaps most clearly shown in this testimony from the Royal

Commission reports:

Commissioner: Do not you find there are young women
who follow some trade, such as the selling of
lucifer matches, who are prostitutes in disguise?
Anniss: Yes, that is the most difficult class we
have, because they get about in the fields and
lanes at night, though the numbers are less than
they were years ago, they do a great deal of
damage, and sometimes communicate venereal disease
to men--very frequently. They travel about as
tinkers &c., who do anything but work, and do a
great deal of damage in communicating disease at
the present time. (22)

This discourse configures the contagious working-class woman's

body as threatening on two registers: she is the dirty

diseased poor; and she could evade state surveillance. She is

dangerous precisely because she "get[s] about in fields and

lanes at night." The product of her work cannot be visibly

ascertained (how many matches does a match-girl sell?), and

her body cannot be easily controlled. Anniss twice cites the

"damage" such women do.

Once a woman was registered as a prostitute and subject

to forced medical exams, it was nearly impossible to prove

herself "respectable." A woman who applied to have her name

removed from the police registers was the object of continued

surveillance and investigation to prove the validity of her

claim to respectability. What's more, the decision whether or

not to remove a woman's name from the register rested with the

police, whose often arbitrary assessments of "respectable"








62

behavior conflicted sharply with working-class women's

understanding of "respectability":

Commissioner: Supposing a woman said she was going
to live with a particular man and went to live in a
house with him, should you consider that sufficient
reason for taking her off the books?
Anniss: In that case she would have to make a
written application, and I should make inquiries as
far as possible whether she had ceased to be a
prostitute or not, and act accordingly. (31)

The surveillance thus extended into every area of working-

class women's lives, and continued throughout her residence in

towns subject to the Acts. And the surveillance was

formidable. Inspector Anniss details his surveillance

measures for determining the numbers of prostitutes in

Devonport and Plymouth:

I took a district each morning. At that time, I
had charge of the apprehension of stragglers and
deserters, having under me six men employed
specially for that purpose, called the water
police, and we had to visit all these houses for
the apprehension of those men, and I took the
number of prostitutes sleeping in each house on a
particular night, so many streets each day until I
had gone through the three towns, taking the number
of women in each house. (18)

In addition, the constables "visit the brothels, and report to

me any strangers found in them at night, also inform me if

they see women soliciting for prostitution who are not on the

register, and ascertain their residence, to enable me to see

them and bring them on the register if necessary" (30).

That many women were unjustly apprehended and imprisoned

under these acts is, of course, the fuel lighting the fire of

the LNA and similar repeal efforts. The numbers of women








63

subject to speculum examinations were staggering. Thomas

Russell Pickthorn, visiting surgeon to the Devonport district,

testified that he examined over 10,000 women in one year--

10,000, when the examinations were once every two weeks!

Despite the contradictions and logical confusions surrounding

definitions of "prostitutes" and "respectable" behavior, and

despite a decade worth of resistance from repeal groups, these

Acts remained in effect until 1886. The military, medical,

and legal arms of the state apparatus persisted in the belief

that "the causes which have reduced the number, and will

reduce it wherever the Acts go" of prostitutes is "good

advice, the influence of the police, and the hospital" (33).

Perhaps the most poignant account of the effect of these

acts upon the women whose lives they interrupted is from an

excerpt read during the investigation of Jane Sanders'

statement to the police after her arrest. When asked to

explain the statements given by Sanders, a woman whose

detention became a focal point of activity against illegal

confinement, M.M. Moore, Surgeon to the London Lock Hospital,

says: I am afraid you would not understand the answers."

After further prompting, Moore reads from Sanders' statement:

Question: Why were you brought to the Royal Albert
Hospital?
Answer. Brought there, like all other women, I
supposed, because all living this life have to be
brought here.
Question: Were you served with a notice to attend
at the surgeon's room or at the hospital, or did
you sign a voluntary submission?
Answer: I had a paper to attend to be examined,
and I was brought here like all other women.










Question: Are you now in a state of ill health?
Answer: No, sir, I am not.
Question: Do you wish to be inspected by a medical man
not connected with the hospital?
Answer: Yes, sir.
Question: Do you wish to apply to the magistrates
for an order for your discharge?
Answer: Yes, sir. (74-75)

I read "this" in Sanders' phrase "all living this life

have to be brought here" to refer, not to "prostitutes" per

se, but to poor working-class women subject to the

surveillance of the medical police. Read in this way,

Sanders' statement hints at a fatalistic endurance of the

state's power over her. Counter to this, though, is the hint

we get of women who, subversively, learned how to manipulate

their positions under the CDA. Many women used certificates

discharging them from the Lock Hospital and certifying them as

"clean" to secure customers. This was such a common practice

(and one that scandalized the opposition to the Acts) that

women selling sex in garrison towns were referred to as "the

Queen's Women.,22 The success with which many women used

their certificates to enhance their profits is evident in this

response from Dr. F. Row:

I fear that the improved status of these women may
eventually cause them to be regarded as a


22The Queens Women" refers both to the certificate, in her
majesty's name, certifying the women as free of disease, and
to the implication that, as prostitutes "servicing" Her
Majesty's Fleet, they were performing a sanctioned service to
the state. One of the opposition's major points of contention
was that the CDA's in effect legalized and controlled
prostitution, ensuring easy access to "safe" sex for military
personnel.










privileged well-cared-for class; and that to
prevent such a result there should be something
repressive as against the individuals who are
practicing crime. (70)

Clearly, it would not do for "prostitutes" to show the

signs of economic success: may feared that "virtuous" working-

class women would be tempted to a life of prostitution

because, compared to the poverty of factory girls, shop-

workers and domestic servants, prostitution could seem a

desirable profession. Row believes that, to prevent this, a

"repressive" measure, "as against the individuals who are

practicing crime," is called for. It is in this light that I

would like to consider the twice-monthly forced speculum exam.

Women reporting for examination were framed by their initial

encounter with the police requirement that they be registered

as prostitutes. The examination also threatened incarceration

in a hospital prison if the doctor reported a woman to be

diseased. Thus the twice-monthly ritual herding and medical

examination did function as a "repressive" measure, a way of

reminding "prostitutes" of who they were. The exam, by

assembling women for a medical inspection, conferred upon them

a group identity which functioned as both definition and

demarcation: the prostitute was defined against and kept away

from the respectable woman. Moreover, the exam itself

embodies aspects of both an external coding of the body (the

speculum is introduced into the body, writes the prostitute

body as accessible to and penetrable by the state) and an

incorporated sign (consistently taken into the body, the








66

speculum evokes a dimension in which, symbolically and

imaginatively, the incorporated speculum figures as an

extension of the prostitute body). The speculum exam thus

performed what Bourdieu calls the work of inculcation:

More convincingly than the external signs which
adorn the body (like decorations, uniforms, army
stripes, insignia, etc.), the incorporated signs
(such as manner, ways of speaking--accents--, ways
of walking or standing--gait, posture, bearing--,
table manners etc. and taste) which underlie the
production of all practices aimed, intentionally or
not, both at signifying and at signifying social
position through the interplay of distinctive
differences, are destined to function as so many
calls to order, by virtue of which those who might
have forgotten (or forgotten themselves) are
reminded of the position assigned to them by the
institution. (123-24)

In case they "forget themselves," and think they have

legitimacy (conferred, perhaps, by the certificate, or by

profit), "prostitutes" must be reminded that they exist in the

margins, are "individuals who are practicing crime," and do

not, in fact, have legitimate subject status under the law.

The speculum exam was by no means the only "call to

order" reminding sexual working-class women of who they were.

Institutional narratives (Foundling Hospital petitions,

charity organization reports, religious and institutional

narratives), the popular press, rescue narratives, and novels

all performed this work of inculcation. In the following

chapter, I focus on narratives of seduction and fictional

representations of "the fall" as works of inculcation helping

to restructure working-class women's sexual relations








67

according to the ideology of the feminine ideal, the middle-

class domestic woman.














CHAPTER 3
WOMEN ON THE SCAFFOLD: BASTARDY AND ITS CONSEQUENCES IN
RUTH, ADAM BEDE, AND TESS OF THE d-URBERVILLES


Narratives of Seduction


The Royal Commission Investigations and police and

medical reports concerning prostitutes show that discourses

constructing women as sexual beings simultaneously construct

them as bestial and depraved. These constructions coexisted

with the peculiarly Victorian move to desexualize women:

Victorian discourses constructing the maternal, self-

sacrificing domestic woman elided earlier narratives of the

sexually desiring woman. As Ruth Perry argues, "historically

women had been perceived as lascivious and lustful creatures,

fallen daughters of Eve, corrupting and corrupted. But by the

middle of the eighteenth century they were increasingly

reimagined as belonging to another order of being: loving but

without sexual needs, morally pure, disinterested, benevolent,

and self-sacrificing" (115-116). Asexual women constructions,

however, presented a logical conundrum for Victorians

concerned with the "problem" of prostitution. If women lack

sexual feeling, how, then, does one account for the large

numbers of women living by means of their sexual bodies? As

Kalikoff argues, "for much of the century, the fallen woman








69

seemed to represent a national moral problem that assaulted

belief in the rational as thoroughly as murder did"

("Victorian Sexual Confessions" 99). Social purity writers,

trying to reconcile asexual women living by sexual work, "used

the idea of female passionlessness to deny that women played

any active role in prostitution: they portrayed women as

vulnerable through poverty or ignorance to the lust of men"

(Valverde 174-175). Narratives portraying innocent women

seduced by sexually insatiable men managed to maintain the

constructions of asexual women by explaining the fall into

prostitution as the result of man's sexual desire: within this

discourse, an innocent (virgin and unaware of sexual desire)

woman is seduced and corrupted by a guilty (sexually desiring

and designing) man.

While at one level seduction narratives maintained the

asexual woman construction necessary to the ideology of the

domestic woman, at a deeper level they masked fears of women's

sexual uncontainability. Within this discourse, women, even

if they do not experience desire, elicit it. The seduction

narrative's over-emphasis on an actively desiring male subject

at whose hands an innocent woman suffers is, as Kalikoff

argues, uncomfortably close to "the rhetoric of first-person

Victorian pornography" ("Sexual Confessions" 103). While on

one register these narratives are sympathetic to the suffering

of victimized women, on another they reproduce and redeploy

this victimization. Constance D. Harsh sees "reformers








70

preoccupation with women as victims" as "complicit with

efforts to limit the power and respect granted women in

English society" (Subversive Heroines 63). The (re)production

and (re)deployment of victim narratives was in part a response

to the "genuine dread of female sexual, social, and economic

autonomy" barely concealed in popular fiction and nonfiction

(Kalikoff "Falling Woman" 357). Clearly, narratives

representing the victimized woman were in the service of the

ideology of the domestic woman. This becomes particularly

clear when we juxtapose women's petitions for admission of

their children to the London Foundling Hospital with fictional

representations of fallen women. This juxtaposition also

reveals the mutual imbrication of narratives of seduction with

medico-legal narratives informing the Contagious Diseases Acts

(and the institutions of the hospital, court, and police

necessary to the implementation and administration of the

Acts).


The Foundling Hospital and Sexual Confession


There is a direct relation between the surveillance

networks investigating prostitutes, who have no access to the

word or to truth, and those investigating and establishing the

"truth" of women's petitions for their children's admission to

the Foundling Hospital. Established in 1747, the London

Foundling Hospital accepted the illegitimate children of women










who could prove themselves respectable and deserving of help.2"

Social disapproval of help offered to those perceived as

profligate exacerbated the hospital's requirement for proof of

a woman's virtue. But, as Bernd Weisbrod in his important

study, "How to Become a Good Foundling in Early Victorian

London" argues:

The ability to deal with each case individually was
dependent on the development of the 'inquisitorial
technique' applied not only to the petitioner
herself but also in some degree to persons with
whom she had immediate social contact. Thus,
'restoring the mother to a course of Industry and
Virtue' became the second acknowledged object of
the Foundling Hospital. (197)24

The procedures for admission of children varied somewhat over

the years, but, by the mid 1800's, a complete system of

confession and investigation was in place to differentiate the

worthy victim from the profligate fallen woman. Battling


23William Acton's 1859 "Observations on Illegitimacy in
the London Parishes of St. Marleybone, St. Pancras, and St.
George's, Southwark" laments that "the existing Foundling
Hospital ... has ... ceased ... to carry out the true intent
and meaning of its founder. With a revenue of the present
value of Y11,000 a year, and with an assured income within the
present century (according to the statements of the Charity
Commissioners) of S40,000 a year, this institution so wanders
from its legitimate path and from propriety of administration,
that each of its inmates costs it nearly !360 before attaining
15 years of age, besides being unhealthy and unnecessarily
reared in the atmosphere of the metropolis; and has but a poor
start in life after all" (505).
24For an interesting comparison between London's and
France's Foundling Hospital issues, see Jacques Donzelot's
"The Preservation of Children" in The Policing of Families.
Donzelot sees popular images of working-class mothers as lax,
self-interested, and hopelessly incompetent as the "legacy of
an encounter between the working-class woman and state
assistance" (31).








72

accusations of mismanagement, the Foundling Hospital

instructions specify that "no child can be admitted unless the

Committee is satisfied, after due enquiry, of the previous

good character, and present necessity of the Mother and that

the Father of the Child has deserted it and the Mother." The

1840 Charity Commissioners' Report specified that women had to

demonstrate that, "previous to committing the offence," they

had an "irreproachable character, but yielded to artful and

long-continued seduction, and an express promise of marriage"

(Weisbrod 205). To be good, they must also be able to provide

witnesses on their behalf; their stories of sexual

victimization had to be investigated by a team of social

workers, police and lawyers, and testified to by employers,

neighbors, doctors, families, and friends.

Weisbrod argues that women's disclosure of details of

their sexual intercourse--including how many times intercourse

occurred, where, under what circumstances--"forced the

petitioner into the position of a defendant in a criminal

trial and wrung from her a confession for an act which was not

necessarily regarded by her as an offence" (201).25 This

sexual confession, Weisbrod argues, "may be seen as an extreme

version of the Foucauldian equation of power and knowledge ...

For those mothers who had lost in the game of how to marry as

25Kalikoff further argues that the sexual confession,
"clearly informed by the discourse of both criminal and
Christian confession ... resonates as the moment when the
fallen woman is simultaneously penitent and criminal, caught
between divine forgiveness and human punishment" (112).








73

a domestic servant and who were prepared to disclose their

personal secrets, the confession offered at least a chance for

the ritual exchange of motherhood for respectability" (208-9).

Kalikoff argues that, in fact, Foundling Hospital

confessionals produced "a theater of penitence" in which "the

fallen woman was the drama's central figure, suggesting a

conflation of two familiar characters of popular melodrama,

the vulnerable heroine/victim and guilty sinner" ("Sexual

Confessions" 103).

Kalikoff's analysis of Foundling Hospital petitions as

"confessional" documents and the petitions' use of

"melodramatic" characterization is particularly important to

an intertextual reading of the ideological work of narratives

of the fall. Kalikoff argues that:

The confessions themselves become fictional
byproducts--eventually documents--of the erotic
process of voyeurism and humiliation in the sexual
confession ritual. The questioners, with their
rigidly eccentric rules and their tireless desire
to penetrate the applicant's best-protected
secrets, became actors in a public drama of erotic
exposure and dominance. ("Sexual Confessions" 102)

Petitioners, required to tell the story of their seduction,

were forced to reinscribe a plot which demanded that women be

coerced or tricked into sex, victimized, and deserted. The

petitions follow a very consistent narrative formula which

parallels the formula of popular novels: a woman meets a man,

falls in love, is used badly and then deserted, left pregnant

and alone in the world. And, like the novels, the "plot" of

the petitions is set in motion only when the two main










characters--the victimized woman and the victimizing man--

meet. The petitions invariably begin: "When first acquainted

with the father," and then go on to give the details of the

"seduction." But, while the narrative structure reproduces

popular seduction motifs, the details of the "seduction" often

tell a story very different than that of popular fiction.

These petitions provide a subtext which tells the story of

working-class women's (sexual) desire. There is, for example,

the case of Jane Sims, whose July 1875 petition reads:

When first acq (sic) with the F. (sic), I was
living with Mr. And Mrs. Alment (sp?), 4, Belgrave
Villas ... I met him when I was out walking in
October 1843 and he spoke to me, and we walked
together: I met him again by appointment and we
kept company, he visiting the house unknown to my
Master and Mistress: In April 1844, he seduced me
in my Master's House under promise of marriage.
c.c. was continued until September, when I left
Mrs. Alment on account of my condition.

Sims "kept company" with her lover for six months before

intercourse, and continued her relation with him for another

five months. This "confession" reads conspicuously like the

history of a working-class courtship which, under other

circumstances, could have easily led to marriage. Similarly,

Emily Shearing writes in July of 1873: "I met him (the father]

accidentally at first: he proposed marriage to me and I

accepted him, with the knowledge and sanction of my Master and

Mistress. I met him everyday and sometimes twice." And there

is Mary Ann Calvert, who "used to walk out with him; we were

26Sexual intercourse is designated in these petitions by
the abbreviation c.c.










engaged." While there are many petitions detailing rape,

incest,27 and cruel abandonment, the largest part of the

petitions tell the story of working-class men and women

meeting, courting, and loving.28 Gillis argues that, "for

working-class women, fertility was still regarded as an asset

and that, if not for the middle-class's moral and legal

condemnation of pre-marital pregnancy, many of the couples

whose children ended up in the Foundling Hospital would

eventually have married." Foundling Hospital petitions reveal

the sexual behavior of these women "to be indistinguishable

from that of others of similar background" (133).29 Acton's

27The large numbers of incest cases was cause for
considerable alarm. It was widely believed that such cases
were the result of the crowded living conditions, lack of
privacy, and moral degeneracy of the poor. The conflation of
poverty with immorality constructed incest as a class
phenomenon. See James Kay Shuttleworth's The Moral and
Physical Condition of the Working Classes, Henry Mayhew's
London Labor and the London Poor, and Gerry Kearns and Charles
W.J. Withers, eds., Urbanizing Britain: Essays on Class and
Community in the Nineteenth Century.
28Weisbrod points out that the vast majority of all
applications for admission were refused. The increasing
emphasis on examining and investigating cases heavily weighted
admission decisions in the favor of women "who could keep up
appearances and ...provide some sort of decorum" (202). It is
thus quite logical that, as Gillis notes, upper domestic
servants comprise the majority of successful admissions.
Weisbrod argues that the over-representation of upper domestic
servants points to the vast numbers of working-class women,
lacking a comparable ability to "keep up appearances," who
were refused. I would argue that, in fact, those women whose
petitions were accepted proved the most domesticable, and
that, even within this sample, we see a great divergence
between working- and middle-class standards of acceptable
sexual and family relations
29Using the fact that the greatest number of women
petitioning the Foundling Hospital were upper domestic








76

survey of illegitimacy draws similar conclusions. Indeed,

many social reformers of the time attributed problems of

illegitimacy to the living and laboring conditions preventing

working-class men and women from forming their own households

and raising children within the constraints of an urban

industrial economy. Acton believed that "could some slight

pecuniary encouragement be forthcoming, the father of the

child would marry the mother and become a reformed character"

("Observations" 494).

The Foundling Hospital petitions, then, do tell the

story of working-class women's sexual desire. But the

hospital institution--investigators, board of governors,

doctors, charity workers, staff--had a vested interest in

constructing seduction narratives in which asexual women were

victimized by sexually desiring men. The institution required

a proliferation of this narrative of seduction: women had to

tell and write their stories, get "witnesses" to retell and

rewrite parts of that story; investigators read the petitions,

questioned and re-questioned the women, their witnesses, their

neighbors and employers. If a woman was sufficiently



servants, Gillis argues that the conditions of servitude
imposed unmanageable constraints on these women. In this
"exclusively celibate occupation, marriage marked a definitive
end to a female servant's career" (121). Women servants were
expected to internalize the moral codes of their middle-class
employers, they were cut off from family-supervised courtships
and left to meet men on their own, and they would not be able
to continue domestic work while raising a family.
Additionally, the men with whom they become involved had to
move to keep employment.








77

established as a victim, then she could be helped. To be

helped (read saved), she must be penitent. She must have

suffered and learned a lesson from her suffering. If she had

appropriately suffered and was properly penitent--that is, if

she proved herself suitably domesticable--her child could be

taken off her hands and she would be returned to her place in

service, usually in a household as a domestic servant but

sometimes also in shops or factories. She was then "free" to

"pursue a life of virtue and care for other people's children"

until she married and began to labor in the service of her

legitimate children (Weisbrod 202).

This confessional structure of the petitions, then, was

part of the on-going (re)production of the fall with which the

middle-class moral reformers conducting the investigations

were so preoccupied. In both novels and Foundling Hospital

petitions, the good/asexual victim narrative elides woman's

sexual desire and amplifies man's sexual desire. The logic of

this narrative bifurcation collapses, though, when we compare

the "seducers" of the Foundling Hospital petitions to the

"seducers" in popular novels. Women's petitions to the

Foundling Hospital generally tell the story of same-class

relations broken off because of lack of money and the working-

class father's inability to support a wife and child. The

novel's seduction narrative, on the other hand, relies heavily

on an upper-class seducer who takes advantage of a young

woman's innocence and vulnerability. As Kalikoff notes,








78

"class is almost always a crucial element in the equation of

seduction" ("Falling Woman" 358). The novel does NOT tell the

story of working-class sexual and familial relations in which

premarital sex is not uncommon or particularly taboo, or in

which many women are more or less happily married after

pregnancy (an outcome clearly expected by many of the women

who successfully petitioned the Foundling Hospital).3" Within

the novel's narrative structure, all premarital or extra-

marital sex results in pain and suffering. Given the

discrepancy between these popular narratives featuring the

suffering of the fallen woman and indications from Foundling

Hospital petitions that many working-class women still

perceived premarital sex as a normal aspect of courting, we

must ask what ideological work such narratives performed. Sex

outside of legitimate marriage was in the process of being

defined as deviant for working-class women, and, within this

discursive production, any unmarried sexually active woman was

a fallen woman. But, in order for working-class women to be

domesticated, they must accept middle-class sexual mores. The

Foundling Hospital's ritual of confession helped to

30It is true that the petition process demanded that the
successful candidate prove that she was seduced with promises
of marriage. It is thus possible that many of the
petitioners, in order to have their children accepted in the
Foundling Hospital, exaggerated the importance of marriage
proposals to their sexual involvements. But it is also true
that many of the petitions narrating "seduction" include
correspondence between the couples discussing marriage and the
future of the relationship. Obviously, a great many of these
women did believe that they would eventually marry their
lovers.








79

indoctrinate working-class women into middle-class sexual

mores: if the petitioner confessed the sin of her sex, she

could be relieved of her child and have another chance to lead

a "respectable" life. The confession, however, also entails

a penance: one cannot be absolved of sin unless one has done

penance for it. In this sense, "the confession of the fallen

woman stands at the heart of [Victorian] texts and contexts

because of the way it evoked the Victorian erotics of

punishment" (Kalikoff "Sexual Confessions" 111). The

unrepentant sexually active woman was bad. The repentant

sexually active woman could be redeemed, but only after she

repented for the sin of her sexual activity. And, of course,

sexually deviant women could not be good mothers or

appropriately raise children. (Ironically, it was precisely

those women deemed morally deficient who were left to raise

their own children as well as they could.) Narratives of

seduction in which fallen women suffer and are punished thus

performed the ideological work of disseminating the middle-

class ideal of the domestic woman into working-class culture

and effectively restructured working-class sexual relations.


The Novel


As Kalikoff notes, Foundling Hospital petitions and

institutional narratives appropriate the figures of melodrama

--the innocent victim/heroine and the guilty sinner. Clearly,

then, institutional and fictional narratives construct and are








80

constructed by each other. This chapter expands my analysis

of the ideological work performed by narratives of the fall to

include an analysis of this work in novels as well as

institutional documents. I examine narratives of seduction in

five novels: Elizabeth Gaskell's Ruth and Mary Barton, Charles

Dickens' David Copperfield, George Eliot's Adam Bede, and

Thomas Hardy's Tess of the d'Urbervilles. I link Ruth, Adam

Bede, and Tess because each of these novels feature fallen

women who bear illegitimate children. Ruth is particularly

relevant for an analysis of the discourse of purity in which

working-class motherhood provides the opportunity for self-

sacrifice and redemption. Interestingly, Ruth also details

the method by which working-class women may be properly

domesticated. My analysis of Adam Bede reveals the

relationship between the "love of finery" discourse and fears

of working-class women's resistance to domestication.

Finally, my analysis of Tess shows how earlier narratives of

women's threatening sexual body underwrite even domestic woman

discourses in which women's sexuality is elided. I then go

on, in chapter four, to read Mary Barton and David

Copperfield for bourgeois, national, and imperial investments

in domesticating working-class women.


Ruth


Ruth's seduction narrative relies on those popular images

so important to Victorian reform and rescue narratives--the








81

sexually designing upper-class man and the asexual, innocent

working-class girl.31 Ruth's innocence makes her the perfectly

blameless victim. After a series of misadventures (she is

orphaned, put out to work, fired, and cast alone into the

world), Ruth is left utterly at the mercy of her would-be

seducer, Bellingham. Gaskell's narrative indicts all of the

social forces that contribute to a woman's fall--the male

seducer, employers too ready to cast young women alone into

the world, the parents and adults who fail in their

responsibility to supervise, educate, and protect young women.

Though the narrative insists that all of these factors are

culpable in Ruth's fall, it is nevertheless Ruth who is

morally responsible for her fall. That is, her redemption

requires that she internalize the middle-class sexual codes of


31Amanda Anderson has already done an excellent analysis
of Gaskell's critique of the role romance and melodrama play
in the discursive production of prostitution. She argues that
Ruth exposes the relationship between foolish romanticism and
young women's susceptibility to seduction. Moreover, it
emphasizes the socially constituted nature of fallenness
(129). While my work has been informed by Anderson's
sensitive critique of agency, our emphases are somewhat
different. Anderson posits Gaskell's "ideal realm of recovery
and redemption" as "a domestic harmony secured by sympathetic
communing" (127). I am interested in analyzing the
constituents of this domestic harmony. Anderson concedes that
"Gaskell's failure to overcome the problem of eclipsed or
attenuated consciousness" reminds us of "the very real
asymmetries of class and gender that structured her social
world" (139). My concern is more material: what are these
asymmetries of class and gender? What relation do they bear
to the industrial capitalist city and imperialism? How do
they construct discourses of motherhood, family, state, and
work? What is the ideological work of these Victorian
discourses and how do they inform contemporary gender debates?








82

which she was ignorant and judge herself and her actions by

those codes before her suffering from and penance for her

sexual transgression can redeem her.

Ruth transgresses, not because of her sexual desire, but

because others failed to teach, care for, and protect her.

Ruth in fact already has the qualities of the Victorian angel

in the house: like Ruth, the "angel" is "loving but without

sexual needs, morally pure, disinterested, benevolent, and

self-sacrificing" (Perry 115-116). In fact, Ruth is so

innocent that, until she overhears an accusation against her

as a "bad" woman, she does not even realize that her

relationship to Bellingham is "sinful."32 While Bellingham

bears the direct blame for Ruth's fall (and Mrs. Mason, her

guardian, parents, and old servants the indirect blame), Ruth,

in order to be redeemed, must accept herself as a "sinner" and

redeem herself through a life of spiritual and physical self-

sacrifice and labor. This tension between purity and sin

structures the novel: Ruth is simultaneously innocent and

fallen, free of sexual desire but guilty of sexual activity.

32Ruth's "innocence" raises several important issues,
chief among which is that, as Anderson points out,
"fallenness" is "socially constituted." Ruth is unaware of
the social constructions defining sex outside of marriage as
sinful. The novel presents Ruth's ignorance as a consequence
of her mother's death--Ruth had nobody to teach her middle-
class sexual mores. Ruth's ignorance also highlights the
importance of mothers indoctrinating daughters into the
domestic ideology. She is vulnerable to seduction because she
"was too young when her mother died to have received any
cautions or words of advice respecting the subject of a
woman's life" (I 89). Her mother did not warn her about men
like Bellingham.








83

The narrative thus preserves Ruth's blamelessness while

simultaneously requiring her reform. Significantly, then, a

religious redemption requires a social and political

domestication.

Despite her "innocence," Ruth's redemption requires her

suffering and penance. Before Thurston takes her in, Ruth's

understanding that the world thinks badly of her makes her

feel a "sorrowful humiliation" (I 192). And, after

Bellingham deserts her, Thurston finds her suffering for her

sexual transgression. He comes across her "crouched up like

some hunted creature, with a wild, scared look of despair" (I

194). In one sense, as Anderson argues, Ruth's suffering

through the failure of her relationship with Bellingham is

part of Gaskell's critique of the romance plot. Young women,

because they dream of being swept away by Prince Charming, are

vulnerable to seduction and abandonment by ruthless men. But,

in another sense, the narration of Ruth's fall works to

demarcate and segregate the classes. Ruth's fall is defined

as much by her class transgression as by her sexual

transgression. Supposedly, if the primary constituent of the

fall is premarital sex and illegitimacy, Ruth could be

redeemed by legal marriage and legitimate motherhood. But

when Bellingham, discovering that Ruth has borne his child,

offers to marry her, Ruth must refuse. Within this narrative,

marrying Bellingham constitutes a spiritual fall. She tells

him that:










All the days of my years since I have gone about
with a stain on my hidden soul--a stain which made
me loathe myself, and envy those who stood spotless
and undefiled; which made me shrink from my child,
from Mr. Benson, from his sister, from the innocent
girls whom I teach--nay, even I have cowered away
from God himself; and what I did wrong then, I did
blindly to what I should do now if I listened to
you. (II 313)

Even if we accept that Ruth's "stain" is her illicit

intercourse with Bellingham, we must still ask what sin she

would commit by marrying him and making Leonard his legitimate

heir. Ruth sees marriage to Bellingham as spiritually

dangerous because he is morally corrupt and proximity to him

could corrupt their son. Since Ruth works out her redemption

through her devoted self-sacrifice to Leonard, to put him in

peril would negate the grounds on which she has earned

redemption. But the ideology of the domestic woman assumes

man's sexual desire and moral fallibility, and relies upon the

domestic woman to be a moral guide and to contain male sexual

desire. Thus Bellingham's moral shortcomings do not

sufficiently explain why Ruth cannot marry Bellingham and

restore him to a path of moral virtue. The threat of a

spiritual fall is, however, comprehensible when we understand

that Ruth's transgression is as much about class as it is

about sex. It is no more acceptable for her to marry above

her class than it is for her to have sex outside of marriage.

Conveniently, the demands of spiritual redemption are in the

service of a domesticating project that secures the labor of

working-class women for middle-class homes and institutions.








85

Ruth's redemption, then, requires her reform. When the

Bensons take her in, they embark not only on her spiritual

education but also on her domestic education. She learns good

housekeeping and domestic economy as well as scripture and

moral philosophy. She is redeemed in part through her

domestication. But the domestication of working-class women

also required redefining their maternal duties. Working-class

motherhood was being restructured according to bourgeois

ideology, and this required putting the domesticated working-

class woman's labor in the service of her children. When

Thurston discovers that Ruth is pregnant, he sees her child as

her opportunity for spiritual purification. He believes that:

The little innocent babe ... may be God's messenger
to lead her back to Him. Think again of her first
words--the burst of nature from her heart! Did she
not return to God, and enter into a covenant with
Him--'I will be so good?' Why, it draws her out of
herself! If her life has hitherto been self-
seeking, and wickedly thoughtless, here is the very
instrument to make her forget herself, and be
thoughtful for another. Teach her (and God will
teach her, if man does not come between) to
reverence her child; and this reverence will shut
out sin,--will be purification. (I 243)

Thurston's speech reveals the importance of motherhood to the

ideology of domesticity. Motherhood emerges as a sacrifice of

oneself to one's children, a sacrifice in which the sin of sex

is purified. Ruth may be redeemed--purified--by forgetting

herself in her child. Ironically, Ruth's redemption is

possible only because the Bensons take her in. Left on her

own, she could not have supported herself and Leonard through

the legitimate work available to her, much less redeemed










herself through a self-sacrificial devotion to his needs.

This indicates the impossibility of "redemption" for most

single working-class mothers (bourgeois homes did not

generally open their doors to them) and the centrality of the

domestic woman's role in the home (she must be at home in

order to be a good mother).


Adam Bde


As we see dramatized in Ruth, social purity discourse was

characterized by the paradoxical argument that the victimized

woman was both innocent of sexual desire and guilty of sexual

activity. By attributing sexual desire to the victimizing

male, seduction narratives negotiated the tension between the

contradictory beliefs in the fallen woman's sexual innocence

and her sexual guilt which required her redemption and

reformation. Narratives attributing woman's fall to a love of

finery performed a similar function. Valverde argues that

William Acton popularized woman's passionless but sinful

nature by explaining women's fall into prostitution as a

result of their desire for fine dress and ornament (175).

Valverde quotes Acton, a prominent physician and a proponent

of the Contagious Diseases Acts:

Every one now, I believe, admits that
uncontrollable sexual desires of her own play but a
little part in inducing profligacy of the female.
Strong passions, save in exceptional cases, at
certain times, and in advanced stages of
dissipation, as little disturb the economy of the
human as they do that of the animal female. ... If
I seek to number the operative causes other than










passion of the woman, I am met on the very
threshold of the task by vanity, vanity, and then
vanity--for what but this are love of dress and
admiration, and what sacrifices will not tens of
thousands of the uneducated make to gain these!
(175)

Hetty Sorrel in Adam Bede exemplifies this type of

passive but sinful female nature. Adam Bede plays out a

seduction narrative between Hetty Sorrel, local cottager, and

Arthur Donnithorne, local squire and heir to the estates.

Hetty Sorrel falls, in part, because Arthur Donnithorne

seduces her, but this seduction narrative is more complicated

than that in Ruth. Whereas Ruth is presented as innocent and

virtually blameless (though morally responsible) in her fall,

Hetty bears a more direct responsibility for hers. Unlike

Ruth, Hetty has caretakers (though, admittedly, her caretakers

are her aunt and uncle, not the all-important domestic mother

and father) to teach and protect her. But Hetty's vanity and

her love of finery mark her as transgressive. Moreover, her

vain desire for costuming makes her susceptible to Arthur's

seduction. And, as Judith Mitchell notes in The Stone and the

Scorpion, Hetty is scorned "for being aware of the power of

[her] beauty, and for using that power" (93). Though she is

presented as having no sexual desire of her own, she does have

the power to elicit male sexual desire. The text explicitly

links Hetty to prostitutes through her aesthetic pleasure in

her own physicality and the use to which she puts her beauty.

We see this connection relatively early in the text, when,








88

after Hetty puts a flower Adam gives her in her hair, he

observes:

Ah ... that's like the ladies in the pictures at
the Chase; they've mostly got flowers or feathers
or gold things i' their hair, but somehow I don't
like to see 'm: they allays put me i' mind o' the
painted women outside the shows at Treddles on
Fair. (176)

The text constructs Hetty placing a flower behind her hair as

a "love of finery," and "Hetty's love of finery was just the

thing that would most provoke [Adam's] mother, and he himself

disliked it as much" (176). However, the fall attributable

to the desire for fine clothes and vanity is specifically tied

to class. While the text consistently condemns vanity and

praises plain dress, it is only the working-class women who,

by virtue of vanity, is, ipso facto, fallen. Mrs. Irwine, "a

beautifully aged brunette," wears "pure white cambric and

lace," "pearls, diamonds, and turquoises" on her hands, and is

so ornately costumed that the narrator speculates "it must

take a long time to dress that old lady in the morning!" (49).

The text caustically critiques such display, but this critique

is within the acknowledgment of her right to display: Mrs.

Irwine "is clearly one of those children of royalty who have

never doubted their right divine and never met with any one so

absurd as to question it" (49). She dislikes her daughters

because they do not cultivate their aesthetic presentation:

they are "inartistic figures crowding the canvas of life

without adequate effect" (58). Mrs. Irwine is thus also

linked to vanity and a "love of finery" (and hence to Hetty),








89

without, however, being threatened with a "fall." As

Valverde argues, "what was or was not finery depended on the

socio-economic and moral status of the wearer" (169).

Hetty's self-adornment (also likened to the pictures of

the "ladies" at the Chase) thus links her both up to ladies

and down to prostitutes. Both associations constitute a

transgression--one of class bounds and the other of sexual

bounds. When, at the games after Arthur's birthday feast,

Arthur suggests that a "grim-looking gown" is not an adequate

prize for young Bess, Miss Lydia says: "I would not think of

encouraging a love of finery in young women of that class"

(216). The discourses of fallenness attributable to laziness,

love of dress and leisure, clearly articulate the centrality

of class transgression to working-class women's "fall." Hetty

desires jewelry, fine clothes, leisure, comfort, ease. In

short, she desires upward social mobility:

Hetty's dreams were all of luxuries: to sit in a
carpeted parlour, and always wear white stockings;
to have some large beautiful ear-rings, such as
were all the fashion; to have Nottingham lace round
the top of her gown, and something to make her
handkerchief smell nice, like Miss Lydia
Donnithorne's when she drew it out at church; and
not to be obliged to get up early or be scolded by
anybody. She thought, if Adam had been rich and
could have given her any of these things, she loved
him well enough to marry him. (83)

Hetty does not want a life of work; she wants a life of

leisure. She is not interested in putting the rest of the

world's needs before her own, is not maternal, and is not a

good daughter:










It was wonderful how little she seemed to care
about waiting on her uncle, who had been a good
father to her--she hardly ever remembered to reach
him his pipe at the right time without being told,
unless a visitor happened to be there, who would
have a better opportunity of seeing her as she
walked across the hearth. (124)

The text equates Hetty's failure to anticipate her uncle's

desire (she does not have his pipe ready for him without being

asked) with her vanity (she does like to strut before

visitors). This narrative representation places women's

bodies and labor in the service of men's desires (he should,

after all, have his pipes) and marks women's failure to meet

men's desires as aberrant. Added to this, the good domestic

woman puts her body in the service of her legitimate children

as well as her husband, father, uncles, brothers. But Hetty

"would have been glad to hear that she should never see a

child again," is not moved by "the downy chicks peeping out

from under their mother's wing," and never formed an

attachment to her cousin Totty (125). In short, as Mrs.

Poyser concludes, "her heart's as hard as a pebble" (125).

The narrative condemns Hetty as a bad daughter, a bad mother,

a bad wife, a bad woman.

To refuse the role of worker in the growing industrial

economy, then, is Hetty's primary transgression, a

transgression which is constructed as sexual. Irwine cautions

Arthur against "feeding her vanity and filling her little

noddle with the notion that she's a great beauty, attractive

to fine gentlemen," or he "will spoil her for a poor man's








91

wife" (84). Once she hopes for a lady's life, "her short

poisonous delights" will:

Spoil for ever all the little joys that had once
made the sweetness of her life--the new frock ready
for Treddleston fair, the party at Mr. Britton's at
Broxton wake, the beaux that she would say 'No' to
for a long while, and the prospect of the wedding
that was to come at last when she would have a silk
gown and a great many clothes all at once. These
things were all flat and dreary to her now;
everything would be a weariness, and she would
carry about for ever a hopeless thirst and longing.
(261)

This sentimental representation of "the little joys that had

once made the sweetness of her life" constructs Hetty as

foolish for dallying with Arthur and not recognizing Adam's

value. Her desire is represented as excessive--after all, at

her wedding she would have a "silk gown and a great many

clothes at once." But on what grounds is Hetty's desire

excessive? The narrative constructs as excessive the

working-class woman's desire for middle-class lifestyles.

Above and beyond all else, we cannot have women moving above

their stations. Villainizing the desire for upward social

mobility suggests middle-class fears of being unable to

contain the working classes, to keep them in their place.33

33The Poyser's, part of the dying breed of tenant-farmers
occupying a middling position in the old land/tenant
relations, point to an anxiety-producing instability of class
boundaries in the emerging industrial economy. Arguably, the
desire to demarcate class boundaries intersects the increasing
difficulty of doing so. A wide range of "working-class"
identities and socio-economic conditions made labeling
somewhat difficult. For instance, Adam (who has a trade and
a business) could be either prosperous working-class or lower
middle-class. How then does the middle-class ensure the
privilege of its position? Hence the fear of upward social








92

Constructing Hetty's fall as sexual reduces her desire for

upward social mobility, effectively neutralizing that desire,

first by not acknowledging it as such (and, without

acknowledging the desire as legitimate, without naming it, it

never has to be addressed); and second by renaming it

something else (vanity), which makes Hetty culpable in her own

fall, guilty not just for what has been reduced and renamed as

a sexual transgression but also for the circumstances leading

up to that transgression. Moreover, this reduction contains

working-class women's desire for upward social mobility within

a discourse that makes sexual transgression punishable, the

transgressor a victim of her own folly as much as of her






















mobility speaks as much about middle-class fears of losing
class status as it does about fears of being able to contain
the working classes. As Amanda Anderson argues, narrative
repetitions of the fallen woman's attenuated agency serve in
part to reassure middle class [male] subjects of their own
autonomy.




Full Text
ILLICIT SEX AND LEGITIMATE SUBJECTS:
VICTORIAN CONSTRUCTIONS OF PROSTITUTION
AND THE WORKING-CLASS FAMILY
By
LORI E. AMY
A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT
OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA
1996
UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA LIBRARIES

Copyright 1996
by
LORI E. AMY

For Helen, who showed me the possibilities, and for
Kashif, who helped me to realize them.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am grateful to be able to acknowledge the support,
advice, and encouragement I received for this project from
Elizabeth Langland. Without her direction and assistance, it
simply would not have been possible to complete. Les Thiele
and Dan Cottom generously agreed to read a work in progress,
and their good humor and insightful critigue were extremely
valuable. Chris Snodgrass, whose perspective and advice have
been extremely helpful to me, sacrificed time and sleep to
help me meet my deadlines. I am thankful to Ofelia Schutte
and Don Ault for their incredible kindness and willingess to
juggle busy schedules on my behalf. I am indebted to the
scholarly work of the participants in Elizabeth Langland's
feminist theory and Victorian literature seminars: Maryellen
Burke, Virginia Evjion, Aeron Haynie, Shea Joy, Simon Lewis,
Mary-Ann Leiby, Bonnie Tensen, Marlene Tromp, Chandra
Mountain-Tyler and Christa Zornebelden. The many colleagues
and friends whose discussion, debate, and suggestions helped
to shape this work are too numerous to fully acknowledge here,
but I must give a special thanks to Susan-Marie Birkenstock
and Jennifer Razee for their scholarly support and unfailing
friendship.
IV

I owe, too, a debt of thanks to the many people who have
aided my research: John Van Hook of the University of Florida
Libraries, Matthew Derrick and Michele Gunning at the Royal
College of Surgeons, and the staff at the Greater London
Records Office. I am grateful, also, to the University of
Florida for the Kirkland Research Grant which enabled me to
research this project, and for the Kirkland dissertation grant
with which I was able to complete it.
There are, in addition to the many people I have already
named, a handful of people whose help at different points in
my life made my "work" possible. In a way, this project stems
from my early work with Kathrin Brantley. Joyce Dreyfus has
kept me physically functional over the last four years. Sidney
Schofield has answered my middle-of-the-night distress calls
for technical assistance. And, finally, I am deeply indebted
to Kashif Tarar for his patience, energy, strength, and
support throughout my work on this project.
v

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS iv
ABSTRACT ix
CHAPTER 1 THE "FALLEN" WOMAN AND THE WORKING-CLASS FAMILY 1
CHAPTER 2 PROSTITUTION, DISEASE, AND THE IMPERIAL STATE 24
The London Lock Hospital and Asylum 29
Restructuring the Working-Class Family 44
The Contagious Diseases Acts and Woman's
Animal Body 44
The Word, the Law, and the Truth 47
CHAPTER 3 WOMEN ON THE SCAFFOLD: BASTARDY AND ITS
CONSEQUENCES IN RUTH, ADAM BEDE, AND TESS OF
THE d' URBERVILLES 68
Narratives of Seduction 68
The Foundling Hospital and Sexual Confession ... 68
The Novels 7 9
Ruth 78
Adam Bede 8 6
Tess 103
Sex and the Modern Family 121
CHAPTER 4 THE "OTHER WOMAN'S" SHADOW: DOUBLING
FALLENNESS AS NARRATIVE FRAME 131
"Love of Finery" and the "Fall" 131
Mary Barton 135
The Fall as Narrative Frame 139
The Fallen Woman as Home Wrecker 144
Working-Class Romance Plots and Domestication 146
Transgressive Desire and Punishment 148
David Copperfield 152
The Fall and Class Transgression 155
Narratives of the Fall and the Legitimation
of Working-Class Women's Exploitation . 161
Failed Domestic Women and Narratives of the
Fall 166
CHAPTER 5 THE OTHER SIDE: WORKING-CLASS WOMEN
TELL THEIR STORIES 173
Reading Working-Class Women's Autobiographies . . 173
Mary Saxby's Memoirs of a Female Vagrant 182
Emma Smith's A Cornish Waif's Story 193
Hannah Cullwick's Diaries 208
Conclusion 221
REFERENCE LIST 22 3
vi

Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School
of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy
ILLICIT SEX AND LEGITIMATE SUBJECTS:
VICTORIAN CONSTRUCTIONS OF PROSTITUTION
AND THE WORKING-CLASS FAMILY
By
Lori E. Amy
August 1996
Chairperson: Elizabeth Langland
Major Department: English
This study analyzes the ways in which the Victorian
ideology of domesticity and narratives of fallen women
intersect legal, medical, and socio-political discourses. An
inter-textual reading of institutional and popular texts
reveals that narratives of prostitution performed the
important ideological work of restructuring working-class
sexual and family relations according to bourgeois ideologies
of gender. Within this ideology, the production of the
"prostitute" (the figure of the illegitimate outside of sexual
exchange) is necessary to the production of "wife" and
"mother" (the ground of legitimate sexual exchange). An
analysis of Lock Hospital and Asylum Reports, the 1871 Royal
Commission Investigation into the Operation of the Contagious
Diseases Acts, and Foundling Hospital Petitions proves that
fears of a contaminating female sexuality intersect
bourgeoisie anxieties about containing the working-classes and
motivate state controls of working-class women's sexuality.
The analysis then critiques these fears as represented in the
vii

novels Ruth, Adam Bede, Tess of the d‘Urhervilles, Mary Barton
and David Copperfield. Finally, a reading of working-class
women's autobiographies analyzes the effects of state controls
and popular discourses of domesticity and prostitution on
women’s lives and the strategies these women evolved with
which to meet their situations.
viii

CHAPTER 1
THE "FALLEN" WOMAN AND THE WORKING-CLASS FAMILY
Cheap is when you want less
than pleasure, a baby, or a
hundred dollars.
Carol Leigh (The Scarlet
Harlot)
This study explores one strand of what Mary Poovey
describes as "the ideological work of gender." I am
particularly interested in the ideological work of Victorian
constructions of "fallen women": precisely what constitutes a
fall? Who is subject to the fall and what sanctions does it
entail? The category of "fallen woman" was important to a
wide range of Victorian discourses. This indicates that it
performed an ideological work across social, political, legal,
and medical registers. In fact, Victorian classifications of
fallenness helped to redefine working-class gender roles and
to assimilate a migrating rural workforce to the labor demands
of the industrial city. As Foucault argues, "for the state to
function in the way that it does, there must be, between male
and female or adult and child, guite specific relations of
domination which have their own configuration and relative
autonomy" (Power/Knowledge 188). The nineteenth century’s
narratives of fallenness reveal important components of these
1

2
"relations of domination," both between the middle and
working class and between men and women. One of the most
crucial function of middle-class Victorian constructions of
"fallen" women was to effectively police working-class
families.
Amanda Anderson notes in Tainted Souls and Painted Faces:
The Rhetoric of Fallenness in Victorian Culture, that "fallen
woman" signifies "a range of feminine identities: prostitutes,
unmarried women who engage in sexual relations with men,
victims of seduction, adulteresses, as well as variously
delinquent lower-class women" (2). This construction is so
broad that virtually any working-class woman could be
suspected of prostitution. This conflation of working-class
women with prostitution is painfully clear in a passage from
the 1871 Royal Investigation into the Operation of the
Contagious Diseases Acts:
(Commissioner): Do not you find there are young
women who follow some trade, such as the selling of
lucifer matches, who are prostitutes in disguise?
(Police Inspector Anniss): Yes, that is the most
difficult class we have, because they get about in
the fields and lanes at night...[and] do a great
deal of damage... They travel about as tinkers,
&c., who do anything but work, and do a great deal
of damage in communicating disease at the present
time. (22)
This passage elucidates the anxieties underlying Victorian
classifications of women's sexuality. Police and Lock
Hospital reports demonstrate a need to classify working-class
women according to their labor. Working-class women whose
labor could not be identified, or whose means of subsistence

3
seemed, according to middle-class gender roles, inappropriate
for women, were suspected of being prostitutes in disguise.
Police Inspector Anniss curiously conflates a failure to work
with disease: the tinkers "do anything but work” and "a great
deal of damage in communicating disease." This need to
categorize working-class women as either respectable workers
or dangerous prostitutes reflects the importance to the
industrial state of regulating women's labor. According to
Anderson, this anxiety and confusion is also emblematic of
"more general cultural anxieties about the very possibility of
deliberative moral action: to 'fall' is, after all, to lose
control" (2). Thus Victorian "depictions of prostitutes and
fallen women in Victorian culture typically dramatize
predicaments of agency and uncertainties about the nature of
self-hood, character, and society" (Anderson 1).
Anderson, however, is particularly concerned with the
class and gender implications of representations of fallen
women as lacking the autonomy of the male subject. While
Anderson focuses on fallenness as one register through which
middle-class agency is negotiated,1 I am more concerned with
:Anderson is particularly concerned with the functions of
fallenness in Victorian culture: the figure of fallenness as
hyperdetermined, in stark contrast to the self-determined
character of the bourgeois male (10); the ways in which
"fallenness is rearticulated to secular and scientific
paradigms" and "ultimately served to loosen religious and
ethical moorings (3); its centrality to the Victorian debates
between idealism and materialism (3); the complex ways in
which fallenness challenged models of feminine virtue (15);
the trope of metalepsis, in which "the fallen figure is
transformed from an effect into a cause, or vice versa," in

4
what fallenness can suggest about working-class women's
agency. The figure of the fallen woman is, to use a phrase
from Nancy Armstrong's Desire and Domestic Fiction, one of the
"sites where political history obviously converged with the
history of sexuality as well as with that of the novel to
produce a specific kind of individual" (21). She argues that:
By the early decades of the nineteenth century,
middle-class writers and intellectuals can be seen
to take the virtues embodied by the domestic woman
and to pit them against working-class culture. It
took nothing less than the destruction of a much
older concept of the household for
industrialization to overcome working-class
resistance. (8)
Among the most crucial of working-class familial
structures targeted for reform was the structure of sexual
relations. J.A.D. Blaikie, in "The Country and the City:
Sexuality and Social Class in Victorian Scotland" argues that,
contrary to the city-dweller's popular myth of peasant virtue,
the sexual mores of rural agrarian populations placed far less
emphasis on paternity and legitimacy than did city dwellers in
general and the middle class in particular. Pre-marital
intercourse (and its possible consequences) did not have the
same social taboo for much of the working class that it did
for the middle class. For the middle class, "family fortunes
hinged upon the prudent choice of partners [and] courtship
demanded an open etiquette, whilst indiscretions were
concealed, taboo; with the rural working class, where no such
which the fallen woman oscillates "between victim and threat,
effect and cause" (16).

5
constraints operated, the situation was reversed" (Blaikie
87). The "problem" of illegitimacy, then, "is not just about
sexual relations; it concerns the whole process of production
and reproduction" (85). Thus, in rural agricultural
communities where children's labor-power could be an economic
asset, premarital intercourse often functioned as a guarantee
of a woman's fertility. Quite contrary to rural norms, urban
working-class laboring and living conditions made illegitimate
children a monetary drain on the state and an embarrassment to
codes of middle-class respectability,2 Simultaneously,
nineteenth-century capitalist rhetoric claimed that the lazy,
unproductive poor were responsible for their own poverty.
Discourses moralizing poverty and working-class degeneracy
fueled middle-class efforts to "reform" working-class sexual
and family relations. Hence, "housing and courtship provided
the active loci for reform" (Blaikie 84).
The narrative repetition of fallenness seems especially
important when read against the common complaints of the huge
body of social workers deployed in Victorian England: they
deplored the working-class's disregard for legal marriage
"Also see Jacgues Donzelot's The Policing of Families, a
history of the family chronicling France's evolution from
Foundling hospitals to public assistance. He argues that the
social, medical, charitable, educational and religious
interventions into the lives of the urban working-class were
a "social economy" designed to "diminish the social cost of
their reproduction and obtain an optimum number of workers at
a minimum public expense: in short, what is customarily termed
philanthropy" (16).

6
certificates, their willingness to change sexual partners and
domiciles without any formal contractual agreement, and the
undefinability of family structures which were no longer
organized along the lines of previous extended or kinship
structures common to pre-industrial agrarian living
conditions, nor yet along the lines of the single-household
family structure of the middle-class city dweller.'
The move to reform working-class culture operated
simultaneously on several different registers. Embedded in
the economic conditions of an urbanizing industrial economy,
the discourses of politics, popular fiction, social science,
law, medicine, the popular press, charities, religious
institutions and philanthropical societies, all worked within
and on one another. As Charles Bernheimer in Figures of Ill-
Repute: Representing Prostitution in Nineteenth-Century France
says:
3For a more detailed development of the specific working-
class conditions attacked by middle-class sociologists,
philanthropists, charity and rescue workers, see also Ellen
Ross's Love and Toil, especially the chapter " 'Miss, I wish
I had your Life': The Poor of London and Their Chroniclers";
William Acton's Prostitution Considered in Its Moral, Social,
and Sanitary Aspects, and "Observations on Illegitimacy in the
London Parish's of St. Marleybone, St. Paneras, and St. George
of Southwark"; Henry Mayhew's London Labour and the London
Poor; and Frank Mort's Dangerous Sexualities, especially the
chapter "Decoding Morality: The Domain of the Sexual."
Anderson, Armstrong, Langland, and Walkowitz all make
reference to the same phenomenon. In earlier studies, Linda
Mahood's The Magdalenes: Prostitution in the Nineteenth
Century and Frances Finnegan's Poverty and Prostitution: A
Study of Victorian Prostitutes in York also discuss the sexual
attitudes of the working class.

7
There is no necessary break between the texts we
recognize as "literary" and those we designate
officially as social, historical, political, or
legal. The fantasmatic dimension that we
acknowledge as inherent to literary production also
constitutes a generative force in the creation of
public discourses that purport to have erased the
traces of unconscious desire. (3)
The ideology of the domestic woman cut across all of
these discursive registers and became an instrument for
redefining working-class women's work, family, and social
relations. But, as Armstrong points out, there was a
substantial working-class resistance to middle-class reform
efforts. Working-class women had good reason to resist
reformation to middle-class virtues. For middle-class women,
the domestic space could be a sphere in which they could
exercise a particular power. But home meant something very
different for working-class women. Working-class residences
were notoriously dismal, cramped quarters, overcrowded, and
without the conveniences which made middle-class homes havens.
They were also another site of labor for working women.
Unlike their middle-class counterparts, who relied on hired
help to perform the strenuous physical labor required to
maintain a household and rear children, working-class women
performed this labor themselves. They often also made
additional money by taking in laundry, doing needlework, or
seeking other such home-based employment as was available,
thus making the home a double site of labor. And, being often
cut off from extended family relations, the confinement to a

8
working-class home could also mean isolation for women." As
Emma Smith described it, married life was a "lonely existence"
(168) .
Thus, while working-class women occupied a very different
position than their middle-class counterparts, they were
nonetheless targets of wide-ranging social and political
activity to make them conform to middle-class constructions of
femininity. The nineteenth-century "exalted the domestic
woman" (Armstrong 5), and this ascendancy configured "a new
form of political power" (Armstrong 3). The middle-class
woman's power was in the management of her household; "the
household had to be governed by a form of power that was
essentially female—that is, essentially different from that
of the male and yet a positive force in its own right" (19).
Following Jacques Donzelot, Armstrong argues that this marks
"the transition from a government of families to a government
4Jacques Donzelot, in The Policing of Families, argues
that nineteenth-century French architectural designs for
working-class lodgings intentionally sought "a housing unit
small enough so that no 'outsider' would be able to live in
it" (42). While the French and English situations were not
identical, there is a close parallel between them. Certainly
the English were as troubled as the French by what both
perceived as "the immorality and lack of hygiene of the
working-class milieu" (43). Both economies were interested in
facilitating the surveillance of disgruntled working-class men
by marking the domestic space as private, not social, thus
effectively requiring would-be trouble-makers (unhappy
workers, union mongers, potential revolutionaries) to
congregate in public space. Marking the domestic space as
private both increased the amount of work women were required
to do in that space (meet new standards of cleanliness, assume
full responsibility for cooking, laundering, and child care)
and minimized a woman's ability to move outside of the
domestic space for her own leisure.

9
through the family" (Donzelot 92).5 This power, however,
rested upon an ideal of femininity allocating to women the
home as their special realm of knowledge and their sole
domain. But the home, often figured as a haven with its
attending angel, can be decoded so that we recognize it as a
theater for the staging of a family's social position, a
staging that depends on a group of prescribed domestic
practices" (Langland 9). These "prescribed domestic
Elizabeth Langland, in Nobody's Angels, offers an
important critique of Armstrong's argument. She notes that,
while "Armstrong is herself resisting producing what she
criticizes in Foucault: 'a story of power [that] often
describes what seems to be the inexorable unfolding of order'
(282n.22)," her study nevertheless "produces just that
narrative" (7). Langland analyzes the power of the middle-
class woman's sphere as "a reciprocal process" in which
"middle-class women were produced by domestic discourses even
as they reproduced them to consolidate middle-class control"
(11). The same is true for working-class women. These women
were both operated on by the discourses constructing
previously accepted modes of working-class life as unnatural
and immoral (field labor, premarital sex and pregnancies) and
were themselves instrumental in adopting and disseminating
these discourses and facilitating the changes in family
structure requisite for their changing economic and social
order. Individual women's responses to different discourses
operating on them varied widely, from internalizing and
reproducing those discourses to resisting and subverting them.
But they all had to confront discourses and practices working
to change their gender definitions and prescribe a new set of
socially acceptable gender-specific practices. As Armstrong
argues, "the representation of the individual as most
essentially a sexual subject preceded the economic changes
that made it possible to represent English history as the
narrative unfolding of capitalism" (13). I want to pursue the
relation between the narratives creating new roles for women
in changing family structures and state regulation of women's
bodies based on the perceived 'naturalness' of these new
narratives.

10
practices"6 were imbricated in a set of power relations in
which middle-class women were key agents in maintaining
middle-class dominance. Using Pierre Bourdieu's Language and
Symbolic Power to analyze the new bourgeois ideal the domestic
woman epitomizes, Langland argues:
Expanding Bourdieu's idea of cultural capital to
include the practices of everyday life, we may see
that the very rhetoric that insisted on the
separation of private from public spheres in
Victorian England and depicted Victorian women as
disinterested cultural guardians facilitated the
operation of this symbolic violence in which the
'structured and structuring instruments of
communication and knowledge . . . help to ensure that
one class dominates another.' (Langland 10)
Many feminist scholars read the nineteenth-century
domestic novel as instrumental in constructing and
disseminating new ideals of femininity. Armstrong argues that
"one cannot distinguish the production of the new female ideal
either from the rise of the novel or from the rise of the new
middle classes in England" (8). Central to the new female
ideal was the discourse of purity. By the mid 1830's, the
discourse of sexuality shifted its focus from the aristocracy
6For a detailed explanation of this, see the Introduction
to Nobody's Angels. Langland reads the middle-class woman's
domains of knowledge and her field of power as encompassing
everything from "increasingly complex rules of etiquette and
dress, to the growing formalization of Society and the Season,
to the proliferation of household-help manuals, to the
institution of household prayer and the custom of house-to-
house visiting, to cookery and eating behavior; they even
encompass major changes in household architecture. To say
that beginning in the 1830's and the 1840's middle-class women
controlled significant discursive practices is to argue that
they controlled the dissemination of certain knowledges and
thus helped to ensure a middle-class hegemony in mid-Victorian
England" (9).

11
to the "the newly organizing working classes," which became
the more obvious target of moral reform" (Armstrong 20).
Working-class women's sexuality—indeed, any sexually desiring
woman—began to be marked as aberrant. Within an ideology
marking woman's natural sphere as domestic angel and mother,
anything outside of the home or a sexuality whose aim is
motherhood becomes unnatural. Any woman to whom sexual desire
could be attached was ipso facto fallen. As the discourses
desexualizing "normal" women became more popular, so too did
the discourses demonizing sexual women. Women's sexuality was
associated with decay, contagion, eruption, disease; "woman"
was feared for "the contaminating decomposition of her sexual
ferment" (Bernheimer 2).8
The domestic woman may well have become a new loci of
power in middle class households, but that power was a stage
in the political and economic evolution in which we are still
engaged, and the plots punishing the desire of fallen women
The popularization of the desexualized middle-class
angel has been well researched. Helena Michie, Nina Auerbach,
Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar, Amanda Anderson, Nancy
Armstrong, and Elizabeth Langland all discuss this in detail.
While William Acton's medical discourse claiming that women
had no sexual desire hardly monopolized Victorian
understandings of women's sexuality, it did feature largely in
popular imagination. See also James Kay Shuttleworth’s The
Moral and Physical Condition of the Working-Classes and Edwin
Chadwick's Report on the Sanitary Condition of the Labouring
Population of Great Britain.
8Charles Bernheimer's study of male fantasies of
prostitutes in nineteenth-century France examines the fear of
a contaminating, rotting, repulsive female sexuality. See
also Nina Auerbach's Woman and the Demon: The Life of a
Victorian Myth.

12
are one symptom of the instability of that power. What does
one do with women who want what the middle class has? Who are
not willing to be pacified with the narrative of their place
in a cosmic order, not willing to choose bodily deprivation
over bodily comfort? What does one do with women who don't
want to be servants in other people's homes, don't want to
labor from youth into an early old age in a sweat shop or a
factory while going blind or getting consumption? Working-
class women's desire for upward social mobility and personal
autonomy is the uncontainable threat the middle-class must
narrate over and over again, and narrate in a way that
rescripts that desire as responsible for the suffering the
fallen woman must inevitably endure. The figure of the fallen
woman encompasses women who resisted domestication along
middle-class lines, as well as women who lived with men
without legal marriage, had illegitimate children, or who made
money with sex. The fallen woman was seen either as abnormal
(where both sexual desire and living outside the domestic
sphere as household manager and mother are seen as unnatural
in women), or diseased (where women's sex is contagious,
defiling; she spreads venereal disease, her seemingly innocent
beauty hosts contaminating impurities). This construction of
women's diseased sexuality facilitated the rise of a medical
discourse constructing prostitutes as dangerous and making
them targets of forced medical procedures. Read in this way,
the figure of the fallen woman signifies the confusions and

13
anxieties surrounding the emerging organization of family and
state ongoing in the Victorian period. We thus need to read
the narratives of Lock Hospitals and Asylums, the Contagious
Diseases Acts, Foundling Hospitals, novels, and working-class
women's testimonies for the ways in which working-class
women's sexuality was a threat to the emerging order of the
state; institutional efforts to contain the threat they posed;
and the various methods particular women devised to negotiate
this change from the old family regime to the new.
Institutional documents such as Lock Hospital and Asylum
records, police and medical reports, Royal Commission
Investigations, and Foundling Hospital petitions chart the
state's increasing control over working-class women's
sexuality and the rise of narratives legitimating state
intervention into working-class family life. These records
reveal the means by which constructions of fallenness were
used to police working-class family structures. Women became
the objects of legislation in the state's attempt to control
the spread of venereal disease (Walkowitz) as well as the site
of the campaign for racial purity. They were penalized for not
being good mothers, for not producing proper subjects of the
English nation. Motherhood emerged as a corollary to
respectability and an impossibility for fallenness. Most
essentially, these narratives reveal the state's interest in
restructuring the sexual attitudes of rural workers moving to
the industrial city. In particular, the working-class's often

14
casual acceptance of pre-marital pregnancy posed a problem for
Victorian reformers. While illegitimate children could be
absorbed into a rural agricultural economy, they could not be
absorbed into the capitalist industrial economy. Regulating
working-class women's sexuality was thus crucial to
assimilating the new work force to the demands of the new
economy. Donzelot suggests three of the most important means
of regulating women's sexuality—convents, foundling
hospitals, and organized brothels—were points of "transition
between the old family regime and the new" (23).9 He argues
that these institutions both "function[ed] as a surface of
absorption for the undesirables of the family order" and as "a
strategical base for a whole series of corrective
interventions in family life" (25-26). I argue that part of
the work these institutions performed was the articulation of
an ideology of respectable working-class motherhood which is
central to the construction of legitimate subjects. Within
this ideology, the production of the fallen woman (the figure
of the illegitimate outside of sexual exchange) is necessary
9Donzelot argues that the three institutions arose and
declined within approximately the same time-span. He dates
the use of convents as training grounds in missionary, relief,
and educational work for unmarried women as the 17th-century.
Simultaneously, there is a consolidation of a state
organization for abandoned children and a move to remove
prostitution from visibility by creating supervised brothels.
All three institutions were in decline by the end of the 19th
century. He sees "a single historical curve" which "unified
these three types of procedures" (23).

15
to the production of the "wife" and "mother" (the ground of
legitimate sexual exchange).
Issues of legitimacy, motherhood, class, family relations
and state form the essential fabric of the Victorian novel:
The sense in which mothers are responsible to the
state and are under its scrutiny, expected to turn
out a child schooled in specific ways and cared for
as prescribed by medical and associated
professionals, was a distinct product of this era,
one that is the central issue in the family
histories of Foucault and Donzelot. (Ross 5)
Nineteenth-century novels incessantly narrate the fall,
suffering, punishment, and death of undomesticable women—
women whose sexuality does not conform to the emerging ideal
of middle-class femininity. Writing her suffering is in a
very real way the punishment of her desire.10 It is the angry
lashing-back at the woman whose desire will not be contained.
This writing punishes "bad" women: sexual women, relentlessly
fertile women, poor women, undomesticable women. These women
were most of all guilty for being excessive, in excess of the
economy: their laboring bodies could certainly be absorbed
into the economic needs of early capitalist production, but
10Anderson notes the "unsettling combination of sympathy
and sadism" in David Copperfield (95). Similarly, Poovey
argues that "In David Copperfield, as in the medical texts
[she] has already examined, woman is made to bear the burden
of sexuality and to be the site of sexual guilt because the
problematic aspects of sexuality can be rhetorically (if not
actually) mastered when they are externalized and figured in
an other" (97). Armstrong argues that "it was as if the
production of this new Victorian fiction depended on bringing
forth some monstrous woman to punish and then banish from the
text, as regularly happened in novels by the Brontes, Gaskell,
Dickens, and Thackeray" (165).

16
their sexual bodies could not be regulated through the
economic system into which their labor was conscripted. Thus
nineteenth-century representations of fallen women as the
excess, the remainder, the outside that cannot be fit into the
economy, indicate a change in economic and power relations.
Their narrated punishment responds to the very real threat
undomesticable working-class women represented to the middle
class. This threat was discursively constructed as the threat
of contagion—the corruption, contamination, pollution of the
wives and daughters of the middle-class; the temptation,
seduction, and disease of their sons. But the real threat was
to the economic order into which their desires could not be
assimilated. This threat was confined and managed by
sexualizing working-class women’s desire, a move which
constructed the fallen woman as aberrant, a sexually depraved
animal.
Certainly, then, the figure of the fallen woman is
deployed to construct working-class women's patterns of
courtship, marriage, and motherhood according to middle-class
family structures. Social workers, reformers, charity
workers, churches, schools and hospitals carried on this work
of inculcation, an inculcation necessary to the restructuring
required for an industrial economy. But, in the narration of
their suffering, we can read something more about the agency
of working-class women and the threat they posed to

17
middle-class hegemony.11 Medical and legal narratives of the
diseased and contaminating woman flourished alongside the
asylum and rescue narratives constructing the victimized
fallen woman. But even the seemingly sympathetic narratives
of the suffering fallen sister mask a tale of unrelenting
punishment. Since Moll Flanders, there have been virtually
no texts which represent fallen women without the
corresponding narration of their suffering and their
punishment. These narratives stand in very stark contrast to
some of the stories such women have told.12 The narrative
repetition of the discourse of the fallen woman's suffering
functions not only to construct the character of respectable
women, but also to imaginatively punish the fallen woman. We
nThis narrative punishment of the fallen woman is
especially important when read against the effects of the
Contagious Diseases Acts on prostitutes and other working-
class women in garrison towns. The Contagious Diseases Acts
drastically affected working-class women's lives. Under the
Acts, a special police force walked the streets at night with
the specific task of identifying "prostitutes." These men
were on the lookout for any new women in town, for women who
were seen conversing with prostitutes or inhabiting areas
known for prostitution, for women who were with men to whom
they could not prove they were married, or for women who were
thought to be soliciting men. These police had the right to
accost, harass, and arrest any woman at any time. Any woman
on the streets at night was subject to interrogation by these
police for any reason.
1_For instance, in her 1825 memoirs Harriet Wilson, a
well-known courtesan, unashamedly narrates the pleasures of
her life with various upper-class lovers. Similarly, the
lowest point of Nell Kimball's life was when she tried to live
by needlework. At the brink of starvation, after the death of
her child, she went back into business as a prostitute,
eventually opening her own brothel, and lived the life of
middle-class luxury.

18
can see in the repetition of these narratives the persistence
and strength of working-class women's threat to middle-class
constructions of woman, family, and state.13
There are several ways in which my interests extend the
field of inquiry within which scholars in this field have
worked. Anderson, Walkowitz, and Nord examine the category of
"prostitute" and the ideologies of gender underlying the
construction of women as virtuous or fallen, respectable or
corrupt. But these analyses do not engage the specific ways
in which the constructions of virtue and fallenness inflect
cultural perceptions of motherhood or the function of
motherhood in the newly organized economy of the modern state.
Ross, Mort, and Donzelot provide an important
historical/sociological examination of changes in the social,
political, and psychological discourses of the family and
motherhood. But they do not address the relationship between
emerging discourses of family in official and state documents
and representations of fallenness in fictional and
autobiographical texts. Anderson, Armstrong, and Langland
all deal with narratives of fallenness on several different
registers, but all are primarily concerned with constructions
13Using Lacan's theorizing of repetition, Judith Butler
argues that, where coherent subjectivity is achieved,
repetition is superfluous. We thus read in repetitive
narratives the incoherence of the subject, "the excluded
invariably return[ing] to threaten the subject's implicit
claim to be self-sufficient, transparently self-conscious, and
self-identical" (12). (In "Lana's 'Imitation': Melodramatic
Repetition and the Gender Performative.")

19
of middle-class subjectivity. Bernheimer details the
intensely powerful misogynist fantasies linking women,
disease, and decay, but, like Walkowitz and Anderson, he does
not elaborate a relationship between these fantasy structures
and constructions of motherhood.
All of these analyses articulate an aspect of the
complicated nexus of power relations involving representations
of fallenness and woman's body as diseased, state regulation
of woman's body, and the restructuring of the working-class
family in the industrial city. However, none of these
analyses brings state institutions' narratives of fallenness,
popular fiction, and autobiography together for a detailed
analysis of how these texts intersect. I am interested in
Victorian constructions of subjectivity across all of these
registers. My study uses the important work already done in
this field with which to do a close reading of narratives of
fallenness and their relationship to constructions of
motherhood in the texts of state institutions (Lock Hospitals
and Asylums, Royal Commission Reports, Foundling Hospital
records), novels, and working-class women's autobiographies.
I juxtapose institutional and middle-class representations of
fallenness with working-class women's self-representations in
order to: 1)expose the differences between middle- and
working-class representations; and 2)suggest often
unrecognized possibilities for working-class women's agency.

20
Chapter Two analyzes the texts of the Lock Hospital and
Asylum and the Royal Commission Reports investigating the
operation of the Contagious Diseases Acts. In these texts we
read the ambivalences, anxieties and uncertainties surrounding
the classification of fallen women, the nature of the threat
these women posed to the state, and the states' measures to
contain their threatening sexuality. These texts reveal the
extent to which Victorian narratives of fallenness relegate
working-class women to the body and deny them access to the
Word, the Truth, or to Law.
Chapter Three analyzes narratives of the fall in
Foundling Hospital petitions and three popular novels:
Elizabeth Gaskell's Ruth, George Eliot's Adam Bede, and Thomas
Hardy's Tess of the d'Urbervilles. Each of these novels
elaborates the narrative of seduction which occurs with
formulaic regularity in Foundling Hospital petitions and
details the relationship between narratives of the fall and
the restructuring of working-class motherhood and family
structures. Each of these narratives also clearly articulates
the social desire to punish women for having sex outside of
sanctioned marriage and relates premarital sex to a fall,
decay, decline.
Chapter Four examines Elizabeth Gaskell's Mary Barton and
Charles Dickens' David Copperfield for the ways in which
discourses of fallenness and family intersect imperialist
discourses and England's colonizing ventures. These novels

21
demonstrate that working-class women cannot prove themselves
respectable until they have passed the trial of temptation by
an upper-class male seducer. In one sense, the trial is as
much about class as sex; to escape the fall the woman must
shun upward mobility, must maintain her class, must refuse the
benefits of material comfort and bodily ease offered by
upper-class lovers. The sexual fall is thus a corollary to
the desire for class mobility. To be a legitimate subject, a
good working-class woman (one who is fit to take her place as
the lawful wife of one of her own class, become a good mother
to his lawful children) must seem to choose her own material
poverty and bodily exploitation. The emigration theme in both
novels reveals both an imperial racism and the threat the
colonies represented to ideas of English subjectivity.
Finally, these narratives of fallenness suggest the importance
of domesticated working-class women to middle-class homes, and
the parallel threat of middle-class women's fall: the ideology
of domesticity assigned different jobs to domesticated middle-
and working-class women, but both were expected to perform the
work appropriate to their station.
Chapter Five analyzes several working-class women's
personal narratives, among them Mary Saxby's Memoirs of a
Female Vagrant, Emma Smith's A Cornish Waif's Story, and
Hannah Cullwick's Diaries. The texts span the years 1806 to
1954. While this may at first seem to present a problem for an
interpretation of the domesticating function of Victorian

22
narratives of the fall, my analysis in fact reveals the
evolution of these narratives and their effects on working-
class women's lives. The earliest text, Saxby's Memoirs,
occupies the cusp between the Romantic and Victorian periods.
As such, Saxby's narrative both reveals vestiges of
eighteenth-century working-class sexual mores and foreshadows
the nineteenth-century's restructuring of the working-class
family. At the opposite extreme, Emma Smith's autobiography
details the success this domesticating project had achieved by
the end of the Victorian period. Born in the last decades of
the nineteenth century, Smith's autobiography was not
published until 1954, by which time she was in her late
sixties. This narrative reveals both the inculcation of
middle-class sexual and familial norms into working-class
culture and the similarities between Victorian and
contemporary discourses of sex, family, and state. Between
these, Cullwick's Diaries were written at the heart of the
Victorian period and chronicle both the transition from the
rural to the urban economies and the changes discourses of
domesticity effected in working-class women's lives. All of
these texts highlight the effects on working-class women of
narratives of fallenness, as well as the surveillance
strategies of middle-class households and the potential threat
of the legal and medical institutions legitimated by these
narratives.

CHAPTER 2
PROSTITUTION, DISEASE, AND THE IMPERIAL STATE
No one who has realized the amount
of moral evil wrought in girls ...
whose prurient desires have been
increased by Indian hemp and
partially gratified by medical
manipulations, can deny that remedy
is worse than disease. I have ...
seen young unmarried women, of the
middle-class of society, reduced by
the constant use of the speculum, to
the mental and moral condition of
prostitutes; seeking to give
themselves the same indulgence by
the practice of solitary vice; and
asking every medical practitioner
... to institute an examination of
the sexual organs.
Robert Carter On the Pathology and
Treatment of Hysteria, 1853.
Carter's quote, explicitly linking sexually out-of-
control women to the eroticized and equally uncontrollable
Indian hemp, raises important questions about the relationship
between Victorian ideologies of gender and the Imperial
project. Anne McClintock in Imperial Leather lucidly
explicates this relation:
Controlling women's sexuality, exalting maternity
and breeding a virile race of empire-builders were
widely perceived as the paramount means for
controlling the health and wealth of the male
imperial body politic, so that, by the turn of the
23

24
century, sexual purity emerged as a controlling
metaphor for racial, economic and political power.
(47)
Similarly, Edward Said argues the "counter-point between overt
patterns in British writing about Britain and representations
of the world beyond the British Isles" (Culture and
Imperialism 81). He reads in British writings "before the
great age of explicit, programmatic colonial expansion" the
colonial assumptions of "native backwardness and general
inadeguacy to be independent, ‘equal,’ and fit" (80). He
does not, however, draw the parallel between Victorian
constructions of women's sexuality and similar constructions
of "native" sexuality. Said's argument that the discourses
devaluing the colonial subject are carried on "over an
undercurrent of sexual exaggeration" is equally applicable to
discourses constructing the English working-class, and
especially working-class women. Like "the natives," working-
class women reproduce themselves, "endlessly, sexually," and
that’s all they do (Orientalism 312). There is thus a strong
relation between the Imperialist reduction of the "natives" to
sexual bodies and similar discourses reducing women to sexual
bodies.
In both discourses, "woman" and "native" are reduced to
animal bodies which reproduce, as opposed to produce. And, in
Britain's developing urban industrial economy, production is
paramount. The British subject (always read as male) produces
things; the industrial city is constructed as the progressive

25
light guiding the development of the backward oriental lands
and the discourse of science is privileged with a truth value
par excellence. British rule is based on the ideal of the
"autonomous male subject," a subject with an "authentic,
private, [and] self-regulating identity," one "capable of
deliberative moral action" (Anderson 2). The British subject,
like colonial rule, is premised upon "positive ideas of home,
of a nation and its language, of proper order, good behavior,
moral values" (Said Culture 80-81). McClintock argues that
the "trope of the organic family became invaluable in its
capacity to give state and imperial intervention the alibi of
nature" (45). The image of Britain as the paternal father
ruling "benignly over immature children" enabled "what was
often murderously violent change to be legitimized as the
progressive unfolding of natural decree" (45).
The home, behavior, and values underlying assumptions of
British superiority are, of course, those of the Victorian
domestic novel. And, of course, the mainstay of any good
home is a good woman. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak defines
"feminist individualism in the age of imperialism" as "the
making of human beings, the constitution and 'interpellation'
of the subject not only as individual but as individualist"
("Three Women's Texts" 799). In this context, the good
Victorian woman produces "domestic-society-through-sexual-
reproduction cathected as 'companionate love'." While the
good woman is busily making child-subjects at home, the

26
corollary soul-making "imperialist project cathected as civil-
society-through-social-mission" is underway abroad (799).
But the individualist middle-class woman's complicity in
colonialism requires her virtue. To be a truly good wife, the
Victorian angel, she must also be a virtuous wife: she must
not have any sexual drive of her own, but must nevertheless
make her body available to her husband to satisfy his sexual
desire; she must produce legitimate heirs for her husband; and
she must manage the social stage in which he makes business
connections, plans, deals.
"In a reciprocal process, then, middle-class women were
produced by domestic discourses even as they reproduced them
to consolidate middle-class control" (Langland 11). The
idealized English home and family "[serves as] the motive and
reward of the Empire-builder" (Bratton 78). The discourse of
"proper order, good behavior, and moral values" was a domestic
production that, to the extent that it funds Empire-building,
functions also as a cultural export.14 Ann McClintock sees
the mission station as one example of this cultural
exportation, where the "mission station became a threshold
institution for transforming domesticity rooted in European
14Ngugi Wa Thiong'o, in Decolonizing the Mind: The
Politics of Language in African Literature, discusses
imperialist impositions of culture—language, religion,
economic and moral paradigms—as a "cultural bomb." He sees
this cultural bomb as annihilating "a people's belief in their
names, in their languages, in their environment, in their
heritage of struggle, in their unity, in their capacities and
ultimately in themselves" (3).

27
gender and class roles into domesticity as controlling a
colonized people" (35). If, however, a woman does not perform
her proper work within her proper sphere, she is not a good
woman. And we see clearly the link between the bad woman and
the colonized. Like the colonized, the bad woman (the sexual
woman, the promiscuous woman, the fallen woman) is perceived
as a threat to proper order, to the middle-class family, and
thus to the state.
It is no accident, then, that Robert Carter's analysis of
uncontrollable female sexuality links the sexually out-of-
control woman to the use of Indian hemp. Sexual women, like
the oriental other, represent the threat of the irrational
animal body, the body that must be controllable, governable,
containable, and, most importantly, usable.15 Within this
ideology, sexual middle-class women are mad (as in Carter's
analysis of the hysteric) and sexual working-class women are
bad. Carter's fear is that the speculum functions as a
substitute penis, a sexual device which increases "prurient
15There are several registers at which the sexual working-
class female body's use-value can be interrupted. First,
since her employer reguires almost exclusive use of her body's
labor capacity, her child-bearing immediately interrupts her
body's labor-value to her employer during her period of
confinement, and the physical and time demands of child-care
pose a long-term interruption to her labor value. If the
sexual working-class woman refuses to be governed and
controlled through domestication, she has no home-making
value. And, while it can be argued that the efforts to
organize prostitution within state-regulated brothels accede
a use-value to the purchasable woman, this value is contingent
upon her willingness to be kept out of sight, contained within
very narrow state-defined boundaries. If she refuses such
containment, her sex has no value to the state.

28
desires" in middle-class women and thus reduces them to the
"mental and moral condition of prostitutes." Women treated
with the speculum are, in fact, fallen; they are not pure. An
indication of their fallenness is the sexual desire Carter
believes the speculum exam elicits—they might try to "give
themselves the same indulgence by the practice of solitary
vice," or they might wander from doctor to doctor, "asking
every medical practitioner ... to institute an exam of the
sexual organs."
Carter's insinuation that the speculum exam elicits an
uncontainable sexual desire conflates sexual middle-class
women with prostitutes and barely conceals the threat to
sexually desiring middle-class women of losing the privilege
of their class status. And, to lose the privilege of class
was, literally, to lose legal rights. By the time of Carter's
writing, moves were already under way to strip prostitutes of
legitimate subject status; the passage of the Contagious
Diseases Acts guite literally gave ownership of women's bodies
to the medical and legal institutions. By the mid-1800's,
there is a collapse of medical and legal discourses in which
doctors and magistrates share the power to define and
incarcerate prostitutes. This collapse resulted in part from
a shared civil and military concern with the medical treatment
of venereal disease and the consequent collaboration of
military and medical institutions. As Elaine Scarry defines

29
it, "medicine and law, health and justice"113 are the
institutional elaborations of body and state (Scarry 42). It
is this institutional elaboration of the diseased female body
and the state's right to control and regulate that body for
which I read the London Lock Hospital and Asylum records.
The London Lock Hospital and Asvlum
When the London Lock Hospital was first established in
1746 it treated men, women, and children diagnosed with
venereal disease primarily on an out-patient basis. The
hospital's early records indicate neither a preoccupation with
diseased women nor a strong drive towards incarcerating women
for treatment. There were wards for in-patient treatment of
the more serious cases, and there were efforts to keep men's
and women's beds separated. But there was no institutional
discourse constructing women as more dangerous than men to the
community or more in need of incarceration. Segregation
efforts focused on keeping men and women in the wards apart
and, occasionally, on keeping unmarried or "low" women
separated from the married women. The July 23, 1747 minutes
16The opponents of the Contagious Diseases Acts rally
under the cry for justice; for eradicating the injustice of
the Acts, of the sexual double standard, of state-sanctioned
vice. But the vehicle of justice is, of course, the
institution of the law, so that what is in dispute here is not
the functional apparatus of the state so much as the means by
which and the authority upon which that apparatus will be
deployed.

30
of the hospital court record a note that no men are to be
admitted to the women's ward. But the hospital seems, at
first anyway, to have been primarily concerned with a medical
treatment of the disease, not a moral reformation of the
diseased. Though the hospital did employ a chaplain, the July
4, 1748 minutes record that he was dismissed for non-
attendance. Moreover, the Hospital Court meetings did not
draw a large audience; the 1748 notes express displeasure at
the number of governors not attending meetings and a resolve
to expel those members habitually absent from meetings.
In the decade from 1746-1756 the Lock Hospital grew from
a small organization fighting problems of non-attending
chaplains and absentee governors to an institution with a
bureaucracy. The first auditing of accounts is recorded March
12, 1750, the first real abstract of accounts March 10, 1752.
Patient accounts were also recorded in the 1752 meetings.
After 1752, the administrative accounts become more detailed,
with a regular financial accounting appearing separately from
an accounting of patients treated. By March 24, 1753 the
court session minutes record an attendance of 40 (up from
eight to ten in its first years), and the minutes move from
being business notes to being self-conscious reflections of
the hospital's past and its role in the future. In short, the
Lock Hospital takes on the dimensions of an institution. The
March 1753 minutes record that the hospital has "been able to
support, maintain, and cure upwards of 1,800 patients within

31
the space of six years" and that the hospital is "out of debt
on account of building the wall to enclose the ground,
furniture, etc. and are of opinion [sic] for the future that
the annual income will be capable of maintaining many more
patients provided the building is enlarged agreeable to the
original plan."
The Court Sessions minutes record the
institutionalization of the London Lock Hospital. The
Hospital becomes "a domain in which truth teaches itself, and,
in exactly the same way, offers itself to the gaze of both the
experienced observer and the naive apprentice; for both, there
is only one language: the hospital, in which the series of
patients examined is itself a school" (Foucault Birth of the
Clinic 68). The expanded recording and codification of the
Lock hospital patient and financial accounts records both the
growing business of the hospital (it treats more patients, the
buildings are expanded) and the growing importance attached to
the observations the hospital business generates. The
hospital generates a medical discourse, a discourse evolving
from doctors' observations of groups of people gathered
together with the same disease and the ease with which
information about the disease can be gathered and shared. We
thus see in the early records of the Lock Hospital the
beginnings of the narratives of diseased women as creatures of
a different nature than diseased men. The records move from
making little distinction between diseased women and men, to

32
defining and treating diseased women much differently than
diseased men.
The Hospital and Asylum records chart the emerging
discourses constructing women as the agents of contagion and
the objects for containment. While the preamble to the 1753
subscription roll for enlarging the hospital does mark married
women and children as particularly pitiful sufferers of
venereal disease, it does not construct women as the principal
objects through which to study or control the spread of
venereal disease. If anything, the text implies that diseased
men represent the greatest threat to the community, especially
in its focus on children who have been infected by adults:
Whereas it appears by report of the committee
appointed to audit the Treasurer's Accounts for the
year last past, that upwards of 1800 patients have
been cured in this hospital since the first
reception of patients from January 31st 1746 to
March 10 1753. Amongst which were great numbers of
married women injured by bad husbands, others were
infected by suckling distempered children, children
born with the disease, others imbibed it from their
nurses, but upwards of sixty children from two to
ten years old have suffered by ways little
suspected by the generality of mankind, visit[ed]
by adults in hopes to get rid of the disease, by
infecting of sound persons even these little
innocents, it appeared likewise that great numbers
of these miserable distressed objects were
freguently refused admission into the hospital for
want of room and most likely many of them perished
for want of timely relief.1
While gender was a minimal factor in the early records of
the London Lock Hospital, by the mid-1800's the governors
1 It was a commonly held belief that persons infected with
a venereal disease could cure themselves by having sex with an
uninfected child.

33
appeal for increased building space becomes highly gendered.
Women are now marked, not only as special objects through
which to study venereal disease, but as specific embodiments
of disease. Indeed, the history of the London Lock Hospital
mirrors the history of the clinic Foucault outlines. Foucault
notes that in the eighteenth century the clinic becomes "a way
of learning and seeing" (Birth of the Clinic 64), and that
"the formation of the clinical method was bound up with the
emergence of the doctor's gaze into the field of signs and
symptoms" (91). The eighteenth-century clinic effaces the
seventeenth-century distinction between signs and symptoms,
privileging the doctor's reading of the signifiers of disease
(sign and symptom) for what is signified—the essence of the
disease (91). The doctor's reading of the signifiers of
disease becomes the medical history. "In clinical medicine,
to be seen and to be spoken immediately communicate in the
manifest truth of the disease of which it is precisely the
whole being. There is disease only in the element of the
visible and therefore statable" (95). Similarly, the
eighteenth-century clinical experience and practice of the
London Lock Hospital resulted in the tendency to see female
sexuality as the sign of disease. By the time of the 1854
annual report, the governor's plans to expand the hospital
embody a specific desire to incarcerate and contain the spread
of disease through infected women. A larger hospital would:
Place at the disposal of the governors many more
wings and wards, and so enable them to greatly

34
increase the number of female (italics mine)
patients as well as to improve the classification
of them. The necessity of a proper classification
of the patients presses itself strongly on the
minds of the governors; for it will be recollected
that it is not the profligate only, the degraded,
or the immoral, that seek refuge and are received
into this institution, but often the most urgent as
well as the most pitiable objects of its care are
those who are free from criminality—married women
and helpless children being frequently found in its
wards, and at present the governors are not able to
make any or at least very little distinction. They
feel that this state of things ought not any longer
to exist; and they therefore regard with much
pleasure the near prospect of being able to
appropriate separate rooms for such superior cases.
The superior cases (virtuous married women) must be separated
from possible moral contagion by the inferior cases (unmarried
women, fallen women). The 1857 annual report laments that:
The Hospital, in its present state, does not permit
of any proper classification of the patients. The
married woman of unblemished reputation is of
necessity placed in the same ward with those whose
past life bears the deep stain of infamy and
immorality. It is, therefore, highly desirable
that, as soon as may be, adequate provision should
be made for a complete classification of the
patients by an extension of the Hospital. Such a
separation as will remove the virtuous from the
society of the immoral, and will preserve the young
and less hardened from the evil influence and
artifices of the more corrupt, is a matter of the
highest importance, and demands, not only the
earnest attention of your Board, but also the
generous sympathy and support of the public.
Here we must note that the Lock Hospital patients were
primarily working-class women. Middle-class patients still
received their medical care in their homes by their attending
physicians. This fear of virtuous women being corrupted by
the pernicious influences of diseased women is an important
counter-strain to the Victorian belief that respectable upper

35
and middle-class women were the most appropriate ministers to
the needs of the fallen. This belief held that the innate
virtue of the angel-in-the-house protected her from the
contaminating influence of the sexual woman. This is not so
much of a paradox as it might first appear. Clearly, it is
the middle-class woman who is impervious to corruption, and it
is her class position that guarantees her virtue. The
virtuous working-class woman is good by virtue of not having
yet fallen, though her "fall" is the always-present
possibility upon which her virtue is established. A working-
class woman's virtue could be called into question if she
transgressed the bourgeois code of sexual conduct or if she
resisted the industrial/capitalist demand on her labor. On
the first register, premarital sexual relations, common-law
unions, serial monogamy, illegitimate children, and cross¬
class sexual relations mark a woman as fallen; on the second,
the desire for vertical social mobility, including expensive
clothes and fashion accessories, lodgings, furniture, good and
plentiful food, money, servants, horses, carriages, and the
like constitute fallenness. In short, working-class women's
fall exists as both the fall into sexuality and the
transgression of class boundaries.
While the 1857 annual report laments the hospital's
inability to protect (through segregation) virtuous working-
class women from the pernicious effects of association with
fallen women, it also acknowledges that "four-fifths of the

36
patients have had at least an elementary education" and thus
they "cannot [charge] their fall to ignorance solely. The
education of the masses is rather deficient in kind than in
extent. It is a training of the mind, not of the heart." In
other words, fallen women need the proper religio-social
indoctrination. This belief in the need to reform, reclaim,
and properly train fallen women becomes a central organizing
trope of the Lock Hospital/Asylum Institution. The
reformatory was established in July of 1787. The Centenary
Report for the London Lock Hospital Asylum declares the
Asylum's mission that of checking "the progress of this
enormous evil [of prostitution]." Prostitutes are the
"miserable ... unhappy women who disgrace our streets, and
subsist upon the wages of iniguity. . . . They throng our
streets, lie in wait for the incautious, and corrupt the
rising generation; evil habits are early contracted, ruinous
connexions formed, conscience and the sense of shame subdued,
and our youths trained up to profligacy. ... We may, without
exaggeration, assert, that a common prostitute is an evil in
the community not dissimilar to that of a person infected with
the plague; who, miserable herself, is daily communicating the
contagion to others, that will propagate still wider the fatal
malady. ”18
18
Apparently, middle-class men do not share middle-class
women's imperviousness to the contaminating influences of the
sexual woman. Newspapers, religious and social tracts,
medical and scientific journals of the period, were full of
the fear of the sons of the middle-class being corrupted by

37
Imperialism. Class. Gender and Disease
There are two levels at which this rhetoric works. The
first links prostitutes with the fears of contagion,
particularly from the lower classes. The second links the
fear of venereal disease and the fallen woman to threats of
foreign invasion, including the effects of war and a fear of
reverse colonization. The rhetoric linking venereal disease
to the plague is rooted in the cholera epidemics of the
nineteenth century, particularly the 1830's epidemics and the
sanitary measures to improve hygiene that grew out of the fear
fallen women—made immoral, given disease, ruined by lust.
Curiously, stories in which middle-class men corrupt (seduce,
morally or physically "contaminate") working-class women are
notably absent. Popular narratives in which helpless domestic
servants are seduced by their employers and employers' sons
generally feature upper, not middle-class homes and seducers.
This is particularly significant given that it is precisely
the rise of the middle-class that made domestic service the
number one employment for women "throughout the nineteenth
century and until the First World War" (Burnett 136). That
these narratives still feature the aristocracy as the
villainous seducers seems to correlate with Nancy Armstrong's
argument that early middle-class discourses wresting power
from the aristocracy leveled "charges of violence and
corruption against the old aristocracy" (18). While several
religious and philanthropical groups (including the Ladies'
National Association) did charge middle-class men with
corrupting innocent working-class girls, this did not become
a popular story. This slippage suggests that the seducing
rake story marks an anxiety about culpability—just who does
corrupt whom? Statistically, the middle-class employed the
preponderance of domestic servants, suggesting that middle-,
not upper-class men, would be the logical "seducers." The
seducing rake story thus marks an anxiety of culpability while
paradoxically allowing middle-class men to avoid
responsibility for the sexual exploitation of their servants
and maintaining middle-class men as victims of the sexually
contaminating fallen woman. This narrative gap, then, allows
the sexualized working-class woman to remain a more or less
uncontested threat to middle-class subjectivity.

38
of contamination and the spread of disease by unsanitary
conditions. The lower classes were seen as threatening
cesspools of disease and contagion. Inflammatory rhetoric
about "the ingression of a disease, which threatens, with a
stealthy step, to invade the sanctity of the domestic circle"
prompted, "in anticipation of the invasion of cholera, the
inspections of the streets and houses of large towns"
(Shuttleworth 11). According to James Kay Shuttleworth, and
important figure in Victorian social and sanitary reform
efforts, "the dense masses of the habitations of the poor," in
which "the incurable ills of society rankled, beyond the reach
of sanative interference," could be "unconsciously conveyed
from those haunts of beggary where it is rife, into the most
still and secluded retreat of refinement" (11-12). The
discourse of the Lock Hospital and Asylum collapses the
boundary between prostitution and poverty; it constructs women
as infectious and conflates venereal infection with the
plague. "The prostitute" becomes, literally, "an evil"
similar to the plague who communicates her misery to the
unsuspecting and incautious.
What's more, the diseased prostitute is linked to the
foreign other. The prostitute "corrupts the rising
generation," debilitating the English race. This discourse
invokes the fear of the unchecked prostitute "propogat[ing]
still wider the fatal malady," rhetorically tying the
prostitute to racial Armageddon. The 1858 annual report notes

39
that the "Indian mutiny" caused financial hardship to the
institution. The same report makes an urgent case for a
separate male hospital and for expanded space to allow the
separation of superior (married and therefore innocent)
victims from inferior (unmarried and therefore fallen)
corrupters. This link between the need to contain the
colonized Indians and the need to categorize (and thus contain
the contaminating threat of) fallen women suggests a
relationship between British military campaigns abroad and
state controls of women's sexuality at home. Both are
sustained by the fear of racial degeneration. The report goes
on to say that "it is evident that if allowed to spread
uncontrolled, this disease leads to the physical as well as
the moral deterioration of our race: if not checked, its fatal
effects are transmitted to successive generations, and are
evinced in the depopulation of a country, or in the want of
physical energy of its inhabitants." We read further in this
report an even more amplified fear of the English race
weakened by the encroaching other—the diseased prostitute,
the urban poor, the colonized:
Should the time ever arise when, from the continued
absence of sanitary regulations, the enervating and
unopposed results of this malady, transmitted
through successive periods, shall become as widely
diffused in this as in some other countries, we may
no longer be able to boast of our national energy
or character, or our power of physical endurance.
Here, the results of venereal disease threaten to make England
like "some other countries," i.e., the corrupted and diseased

40
colonies. Disease threatens the national character and
physical body of England itself. Similarly, the 1860 report
says: "The time is long past when society could afford to
blind itself to the social evils, more destructive than open
war, which sap its strength and undermine its very existence."
This rhetoric conflates disease, death, decay, and decline
with war, foreign enemies and invasion. It constructs
contamination and invasion as imminent dangers, and
strategically deploys this inflammatory discourse to enact
legislation uniting the medical and police institutions in a
network of surveillance and control over working-class women.
Thus the prostitute becomes the symbol of the need for
state control and regulation, both at the domestic level (the
working-classes must be sanitized, disease must be contained)
and at the national level (she is linked to the backward
native, threatens the potency of the English race). The
rhetoric likens working-class slums to the uncivilized
colonies and makes it the business of the capitalist state to
impose order and good government on the disorderly and
mismanaged poor. According to Shuttleworth's 1832 study The
Moral and Physical Condition of the Working Classes, "moral
and physical degradation are inseparable from barbarism" (78).
It is "the cultivation of the faculties, the extension of
knowledge, the improvement of the arts" that "enable man to
extend his dominion over matter" (79). There is a "natural
progress of barbarous habits" in which "want of cleanliness,

41
of forethought, and economy, are found in almost invariable
alliance with dissipation, reckless habits, and disease" (81).
Thus the working class, as the dirty, uncivilized barbarians,
must be managed, regulated, schooled, taught, governed, by the
civilized middle class. This rhetoric moralized poverty,
always seeing poverty as a sign of moral degeneracy and
intellectual inferiority. Thus, when Shuttleworth, whose
tract is full of the praises of capitalism, describes the
abominable living conditions of the poor in Parliament Street,
Manchester, he makes these conditions their fault:
There is only one privy for three hundred and
eighty inhabitants, which is placed in a narrow
passage, whence its effluvia infest the adjacent
houses, and must prove a most fertile source of
disease. In this street also, cesspools with open
grids have been made close to the doors of the
houses, in which disgusting refuse accumulates, and
whence its noxious effluvia constantly exhale.
(36) .
This picture of the stagnant miasma—the noxious effluvia of
the overflowing privy and open cesspools—is linked to a moral
miasma, and the prostitute becomes the symbol par excellence
of contagion. As David Trotter explains in Circulation:
Defoe, Dickens, and the Economies of the Novel, "the
prostitute becomes the cesspool, the point in the system where
refuse accumulates and disease flourishes. Like a drain, her
body must be cleared regularly, and not left to fester. The
metaphor identifies her, but not her clients; she alone,
therefore, bears the responsibility for syphilis" (75).

42
Despite the horror with which working-class living
conditions are described and the fear in which they are held,
Shuttleworth still maintains that "the unsheltered, naked
savage, starving on food common to the denizens of the
wilderness, never knew the comforts contained in the most
wretched cabin of our poor" (78). According to Shuttleworth,
it is not the conditions of an industrial capitalist state
that create the horror of the living conditions he describes,
but the moral and intellectual deficiency of the working
classes who have not properly reaped the civilizing rewards of
capitalism. In fact, civilization itself demands the spread
of capitalism and domestic economy:
When, therefore, every zone has contributed its
most precious stores—science has revealed her
secret laws—genius has applied the mightiest
powers of nature to familiar use, making matter the
patient and silent slave of the will of man—if
want prey upon the heart of the people, we may
strongly presume that, besides the effects of
existing manners, some accidental barrier exists,
arresting their natural and rightful supply. (79)
Thus, "the evils affecting the working classes, so far
from being the necessary results of the commercial system,
furnish evidence of a disease which impairs its energies, if
it does not threaten its vitality" [italics in original] (79).
There is a fear that the "other" is a disease inside of
Britain itself, and that the unordered contaminating other
threatens to burst the boundaries containing it and spill into
the orderly halls of industrial capitalist British government.
This other could be the laborer challenging industrialization,

43
an undomesticated female sexuality, or the colonized
rebelling. The prostitute, as the uncontainable body, is the
untechnologized other, the one who needs the rational
scientific governance of men/law/Britain and industry. She
stands as the emblem of mismanagement, squalor, filth and
disease, all of the things antithetical to proper order and
economic prosperity. The "most pressing necessities of the
poor" can be relieved only by "first ... a well-regulated
charity, and secondarily, by instruction in domestic economy—
exhortations to industry—admonition concerning the
consequences of vice, and by obtaining work for the deserving
and unemployed" (Shuttleworth 66). Thus the eradication of
poverty and vice hinges upon women's domestic virtues.
Restructuring the Working-Class Family
Donzelot argues that the new family structure of the
modern state required the middle-class's active construction
of a feminine ideal for the working-class:
Woman, the housewife and attentive mother, was
man's salvation, the privileged instrument for
civilizing the working class. It sufficed merely
to shape her to this use, to furnish her with the
necessary instruction, to instill in her the
elements of a tactics of devotion, in order for her
to stamp out the spirit of independence in the
working man. (Donzelot 36)
And, in fact, Shuttleworth laments that "the early age at
which girls are admitted into the factories, prevents their
acquiring much knowledge of domestic economy; and even
supposing them to have had accidental opportunities of making

44
this acquisition, the extent to which women are employed in
the mills, does not, even after marriage, permit the general
application of its principles" (69).
Those "most pressing necessities of the poor," then, can
be taken care of by the domestic labors of a good woman, while
poverty and vice will perpetuate themselves as long as
working-class women are wayward. And, more specifically, the
working-class woman must be a good mother. The working-class
woman whose wage-labor prohibits her from nursing her own
children does the most grievous harm, as her children are then
given to wet-nurses, "abandoned to one whose sympathies are
not interested in its welfare." Children so "abandoned" are
"ill-fed, dirty, ill-clothed, exposed to cold and neglect; and
in consequence, more than one-half of the offspring of the
poor (as may be proved by the bills of mortality of the town)
die before they have completed their fifth year" (70).
Interestingly, Shuttleworth overlooks the economic necessity
that forces women to place their children with wet-nurses:
neither they nor their children can survive unless they work,
but, in order to work, somebody else must assume child-care
responsibilities. He sees little relation between inadequate
wages, poor living conditions, and poverty. He sees poverty
as its own disease, the result of vice and immoral behavior.
To correct the causes of poverty, Shuttleworth proposes
institutionalized schooling. In the schools:
All the children of the poor are rescued from
ignorance, and from the effects of that bad

45
example, to which they are now subjected in the
crowded lanes of our cities.
With a general system of education, we hope
will also be introduced institutions, in which the
young females of the poor may be instructed in
Domestic Economy, and where those pernicious
traditional prejudices, which, combined with
neglect, occasion the great mortality of their
children, may be removed, and they may receive
wholesome advice concerning their duties as wives
and mothers. (71-72)
The Contagious Diseases Acts and Woman's Animal Body
Thus the fallen woman becomes a symbolically charged
site, associated with the dirt of the lower classes, epidemic
disease and contamination, and the decline of the English
race—responsible for this decline both by spreading disease
and contagion and by bearing weakened offspring, "one-half of
whom die before they reach the age of five years"
(Shuttleworth 11). This is the context out of which the
Contagious Diseases Acts grew. Judith Walkowitz, the
definitive source for historical study of the Contagious
Diseases Acts, summarizes them:
The Contagious Diseases Acts of 1864, 1866, and
1869 were introduced as exceptional legislation to
control the spread of venereal disease among
enlisted men in garrison towns and ports. By 1869,
they were in operation in eighteen "subjected
districts." Under the acts, a woman could be
identified as a "common prostitute" by a special
plainclothes policeman and then subjected to a
fortnightly internal examination. If found
suffering from gonorrhea or syphilis, she would be
interned in a certified lock hospital (a hospital
containing venereal wards) for a period not to
exceed nine months. The definition of common
prostitute was vague, and consequently the
metropolitan police employed under the acts had
broad discretionary powers. When accosted by the

46
police, a woman was expected to submit voluntarily
to the medical and police registration system or
else be brought before the local magistrates. If
brought to trial for refusing to comply, the woman
bore the burden of proving that she was virtuous—
that she did not go with men, whether for money or
not. (Walkowitz 2)
A repeal movement, fueled in large part by the Ladies'
National Association, eventually resulted in a series of Royal
Commission investigations into the operations of the Acts.
The narrative of these investigations reveals the extent to
which the category of "prostitute" is a construction used to
police the working classes. It is precisely the issue of the
visibility of the prostitute body that organizes both the
enactment of and the opposition to the Contagious Diseases
Acts. The visibility of the prostitute body, the public
body, is read as an offense to the domestic woman's body, the
private body. Moreover, the metonymic substitution of disease
for the prostitute/public body becomes the raison d'etre for
both the legal-medical purging/cure/removal and the religious
reform/purification/cleansing of that body. The same logic
organizing the enactment of the CDA's also organized the
opposition to them. The drive to "reclaim" the prostitute, to
"restore" her, rests on the denial of the materiality of the
body: the "virtuous" woman is the pure woman, the woman not
fallen into her sex, her body, and the "fallen" woman is her
sex, her body. The fallacy of this logic assumes a "self"
that is not "body," and the visibility of the prostitute body

47
is as much a threat to opponents' self-construction as it is
for the proponents'.
The Word, the Law, and the Truth
Within this construction, the sexualized woman is the animal
body with no access to the word, the law, or legitimate
subject status. Truth (a product of the knowing word and
determined by the system of law) is not something the
prostitute can tell; her only truth is in her body, but that
truth must be read by the legitimate subject with access to
language and law. Walkowitz notes that "the failure to
provide a statutory definition of the common prostitute is
consistent with the traditional legal treatment in Britain of
women and outcast groups—as the "other," an entirely negative
and collective presence before the law" (Walkowitz 87). And,
as Page duBois argues in Torture and Truth, "the logic of our
philosophical tradition, of some or our inherited beliefs
about truth, leads almost inevitably to conceiving of the body
of the other as the site from which truth can be produced, and
to using violence if necessary to extract that truth" (6).19
1 duBois’ elaborates the argument that "the very idea of
truth we receive from the Greeks, those ancestors whom Allan
Bloom names for us, is inextricably linked with the practice
of torture, which has almost always been the ultimate attempt
to discover a secret 'always out of reach'" (7). She argues
that "since we are descended from this noble ancient culture,
from the inventors of philosophy and democracy, we see
ourselves as privileged, as nobly obliged to guide the whole
benighted world toward Western culture's version of democracy
and enlightenment" (4). duBois problematizes the West's self-
privileging, calling for an understanding that "there is more

48
Thus, what is really at stake in the investigations is a
validation of the law, an affirmation of the rational premises
of that law, and a reassertion of the "truth" of the good
master/ruler upon which that law is founded. While the
investigation is overburdened with police reports of the
surveillance and arrest of prostitutes, medical returns of
their gynecological exams, and renditions of their "stories,"
not one woman labeled and "disciplined" as a "prostitute"
represents herself in the inguiry. They are the silent
outsiders to whom the legitimate speech of the institution is
not accessible, and the stories represented are not the
at stake in our recognition of this history than
antiquarianism, than complacency about our advances from
barbarism to civilization. That truth is unitary, that truth
may finally be extracted by torture, is part of our legacy
from the Greeks and, therefore, part of our idea of 'truth'"
(4-5). She examines the structure of truth in Greek law,
understandings of slavery and freedom, torture, and writing.
I draw a parallel between the slave body and the prostitute
body. While this is not an exact correlation, I believe
duBois' argument points to important aspects of Victorian
constructions of "prostitute": that prostitutes cannot tell
the truth; that their bodies must tell the truth of their
vice, of their disease, and their threat; that the medical and
legal institutions must extract truth from the prostitute;
that the truth extracted alleviates anxieties about the
possibility of, as Anderson terms it, "attenuated autonomy and
fractured identity" (2). Thus, where duBois argues that the
"desire to uncover the truth of the difference between slavery
and freedom constitutes part of the discourse on torture in
the ancient world" (47), I would argue that debates over state
practices regulating prostitution mark a cultural anxiety
about subjectivity in the modern world. Whereas duBois sees
that "the slave's truth is the master's truth; it is in the
body of the slave that the master's truth lies, and it is in
torture that his truth is revealed" (66), I argue that
constructions of prostitute tell a part of the truth about the
rise of the modern state: legitimacy is defined against the
prostitute body, and it is by controlling the prostitute body
that legitimate subject status is secured.

49
women's but a rendition that serves the purposes of the
parties to this performance. Within this dramatization of the
issues surrounding the Contagious Diseases Acts, the only
voices representing themselves are, in fact, "legitimate"
voices. Both poles of the discourse participate in what
Pierre Bourdieu calls the "monopoly of legitimate symbolic
violence" (239). All parties involved in this discursive
production of "truth" are already legitimate speakers in that
they already have access to the institutions of language and
law, and this access grounds them as intrinsically dominating
to those about whom and on whose behalf they pronounce. As
Bourdieu says:
The use of language, the manner as much as the
substance of discourse, depends on the social
position of the speaker, which governs the access
he can have to the language of the institution,
that is, to the official, orthodox and legitimate
speech. It is the access to the legitimate
instruments of expression, and therefore the
participation in the authority of the institution,
which makes all the difference. (109)
In this sense, then, all the speakers involved in this drama
possess a linguistic competence which is a "statutory
capacity" (Bourdieu 69). The statutory capacity of the
legitimate speaker makes his speech performative in that it
claims (and effectively claims to the extent that he is a
recognized agent of the state) to hold over dominated
individuals the "potential jurisdiction of formal law"
(Bourdieu 71).

50
The truth produced is, while different in specific ways,
fundamentally the same truth for both the recognized agents of
the state (police, medical and legal institutions) and those
claiming to oppose the recognized agents of the state (LNA,
church groups, repeal and reform activists). Both produce
themselves as legitimate rulers-masters, those who know what
to do with the "prostitutes," how to solve the problem of
"prostitution." All parties to the investigation share the
state's language, uncritically constructing "prostitute" as a
category and "the prostitute" as an object for intervention.
They share the language of disease, the construction of
"prostitute" as a category authorizing intervention into
working-class women's lives (whether medical, legal, moral,
or religious), and the consensus that something must be done
with these women. This construction is a symbolic imposition
of official naming, and as such, both the opponents and the
proponents of the Acts are members of the same linguistic
community and share the "monopoly of legitimate symbolic
violence."
The drama of the investigation involves a performance in
which the official language of the state (legal, medical,
class) reauthorizes itself. This reauthorization is a
production that begins with the legitimacy of the language
(the Contagious Diseases Acts) being called into guestion.
This performance succeeds to the extent that the institutions
of the state—the court and the hospital—are "capable of

51
imposing universal recognition of the dominant language."
This type of linguistic community "is the condition for the
establishment of relations of linguistic domination" (Bourdieu
45-46). Judging from the results of the 1871 Royal Commission
Investigation, the performance did succeed in "imposing
universal recognition of the dominant language." The
Committee was satisfied that "the police are not chargeable
with any abuse of their authority, and that they have hitherto
discharged a novel and difficult duty with moderation and
caution" (7). The primary truth produced in these
investigations, then, (reproduced in the testimony of the bulk
of the "witnesses" and the product of the investigation) is
the "truth" of working-class woman's diseased sex, the "truth"
of the prostitute. While there is some dispute among the
contestants as to whom and under what circumstances women
should be defined as "prostitute," as to what constitutes
valid evidence, as to the agents who should be authorized to
dispose of the women, and as to the proper disposition of the
women, there is no dispute about the category itself. Both
the proponents and the opponents of the Acts participate in an
"official naming, a symbolic act of imposition which has on
its side all the strength of the collective, of the consensus,
of common sense, because it is performed by a delegated agent
of the state, that is, the holder of the monopoly of
legitimate symbolic violence" (Bourdieu 239).

52
Nevertheless, the most obvious and the most readily
recognizable as official agents of the state and official
speakers are the doctors and the police. No matter what
challenges are presented to the "evidence" or "testimony" of
these "officials," the investigating commission clearly
positions itself as aligned with the word of these agents.
For example, in the cross-examination of Police Constable S.R.
Anniss by Committee Chair William Nathaniel Massey, Massey
says to Anniss:
Now I must ask you a guestion which the
respectability of your character and the manner in
which you have given your evidence makes it very
disagreeable to me to put, but it is my duty to do
so, because a statement has been made that you and
your officers have conducted yourselves with
indecency and have used foul language in
discharging your duty towards these unfortunate
women. Now I must ask you whether this statement
is true. ( 310)20
Anniss categorically denies the accusations, and his word is
indisputable evidence for the commission. Moreover, the
police are represented as having a special knowledge, a
knowledge to which those accusing the police of wrong-doing
have no access. Accusations against the police are
20 • • . •
Anniss is responding to the accusation that the
metropolitan police conducted night arrests of women they
suspected of prostitution. At these arrests, the police are
accused of entering the bedrooms, trying to catch women in
bed, of forcibly pulling the bed covers from the women,
sexually harassing the women, and being verbally and
physically violent with the women. An interesting addendum to
this accusation is the statistic, cited by Francis Finnegan in
Poverty and Prostitution, that police represented one-sixth of
the prostitutes' business in York. (122)

53
represented as ignorant, statements which lack knowledge or
evidence, and are therefore unsubstantiable. As Anniss
explains the accusations of police abuse, the accusers are,
first, "led away by the stories of these poor fallen women"
(312) and, secondly, "unacquainted with police regulations"
(312). Such people "know nothing about the subtlety of these
poor creatures, and [are] therefore led away by them, and it
is something dreadful to repeat their statements in the way it
has been done, and thereby mislead the credulous" (312). The
prostitutes, of course, are configured as only capable of
lying. Anniss says over and over again, "what these women say
cannot and must not be taken into account ... I would not
speak after or move on anything a prostitute would say
we could not rely or act on what prostitutes say" (22). Like
the slave in duBois' analysis of the Athenian court, the
prostitute cannot reveal a truth through the word, only
through her body.
Even those supposedly advocating on behalf of the
prostitutes as a rule reject the authority of the prostitute's
word (with the notable exception of Josephine Butler). For
example, the Reverend Lowry says that "I have heard the
stories by which some have been induced to become prostitutes,
but I have never sought much on that point, because I have
never thought it very trustworthy." Furthermore, he says that
he "could not rely on" their self-representations (324). Even
when their stories are accepted, the prostitute's word must be

54
tested for its truth. Unlike the word of the police or the
doctor, the truth of which is self-evident, the word of the
prostitute is always under suspicion. "Do you believe all
these girls tell you?" " Do you think you can rely on what
these girls tell you?" are common guestions put to those who
position themselves as representing the women brought under
the Acts. Even when Rev. A. Lowry objected to an incident in
which the police's refused to believe a woman who claimed to
have been wrongly accused of and detained for prostitution,
his objection was on the grounds that the woman's word was not
sufficiently tested. He thinks it disgraceful that the police
did not attempt to prove or disprove the validity of her
story. It was "a most disgraceful thing that policeman before
he had finished examining the girl told her, 'I do not believe
a word that you say.' How had he any opportunity of testing
whether what she said was true or false when he said he did
not believe her statement" (325). Clearly, the problem is NOT
that the woman in question is suspected of lying—Lowry, too,
suspects "prostitutes" of lying. Neither party accepts the
women's word as sufficient or, as with the word of the police,
as proof in itself.
In this configuration of the prostitute, then, she has no
access to the word, to truth, or the law. She is reduced to
an animal body, incapable of speaking a truth, always
dangerous and a threat to the moral order and physical
integrity of the English nation. Mr. W. H. Sloggett,

55
physician to the London Lock Hospital, testifies before the
commission that "every woman being a prostitute may be
suspected of being diseased at any moment" (141). What's
more, this disease may escape detection, be festering and
infecting innocent men without their knowing it. As M.M.
Moore, surgeon to the London Lock Hospital in 1862, says:
I believe cases of syphilis may escape for a week
or so, or perhaps more. A woman may contract
syphilis the day after she leaves the hospital, and
during all the remainder of the fortnight she may
be spreading it abroad amongst the people ... so
that if the plague were not stayed by artificial
means it would be continually as it were
reengendering itself. (76-77)
The figure of the diseased prostitute lurking about, ready to
spread contagion to unsuspecting men, invoked a fear used to
legitimate forced surveillance and medical detention of any
women suspected of prostitution. Not only must this disease
be searched out and confined, it must be described, charted,
relished in its vileness:
Commissioner: Now if a woman is sent into a
hospital with a uterine discharge, or abrasion, or
ulceration of the cervix, on what data would you
form an opinion as to whether that was a contagious
disease within the meaning of the Acts?
Moore: Well looking at these things alone and not
knowing any history of secondary syphilis referring
to that woman, I should say, I think they are
contagious, because they are prostitutes. I
believe the diseases are contagious. I think the
discharge is contagious and the ulceration of the
{?} is contagious, because the women are
prostitutes, and out plying their trade.
Commissioner: Then you would not say there is
anything in the nature of these discharges in
themselves which would enable you to state whether
they were symptoms of contagion or not?
Moore: Not of themselves. I would say this, in
fact I know, that in a prostitute there is a

56
discharge from the uterus, a purulent discharge,
which is never or very seldom indeed present in a
virtuous woman. (81)
In a miraculous feat of warped logic, then, women were
forcibly locked in hospitals on the basis of symptoms which
could not be with any certainty defined as contagious disease.
What's more, they were defined as diseased because they had
previously been defined as prostitutes. (And both
definitions, as I have already demonstrated, are arbitrary
constructions, acts of violent symbolic imposition which
result in violent medical detention.) This diagnosis of
disease is a moral, not a medical one. Similarly, the
definition of prostitution was a moral, not a legal, one.
Women were subject to detention for prostitution on the
discretion and at the whim of the medical police, a legal-
medical body given authority over working-class women's
bodies. These women had no legal rights once detained. As
Anniss explained it, women who did not voluntarily submit
themselves for examination could be "taken before the
magistrate and punished" (49). Once confined to the hospital,
"No woman is to be discharged within ten days of her admission
to the Lock wards, without the opinion of the visiting surgeon
being first taken" (71). But even women whose symptoms could
not be classified as contagious were, as a matter of course,
locked up. Pickthorn notes that:
In performing my duty ... I have looked on all
ulceration of the genitals in prostitutes, women
having indiscriminate intercourse, as dangerous. I
think the Commission will agree that it is safe to

57
leave it to the resident surgeon afterwards, when
they come under his treatment, whether they are
actually virulent or not, but if they are pouring
out puss, and that is from the vagina, I conceive
that contact is unsafe for the man ... I think in a
prostitute all those ulcerations are dangerous.
(46)
It is important to note that, in this discourse, a prostitute
is a woman "having indiscriminate intercourse."
"Indiscriminate intercourse" could mean anything from serial
monogamy to premarital sex with one's fiancé. And, according
to Victorian medical definitions, women with yeast infections
could be sent to the hospital, from which they could not be
discharged in less than ten days and were more often kept for
periods up to several months.
Many women, of course, rebelled. Mr. S. Wolferstan
testified that a "considerable number" of women were sent to
prison while he was at the Albert Hospital, "principally for
the offenses of running away from the hospital without being
discharged therefrom, and making disturbances in the wards of
the hospital" (117). These women responded to more than the
forced detention, to more than the barbarisms passing as
medical treatment. They also responded to being reduced to
animal, bestial bodies upon whom any action was justified.
The construction of the sexual woman's body as animal and
subhuman justifies any forced medical procedure the state, for
its due safety, sees fit to render. Commissioner Applegarth
asks: "Do you suppose there is any treatment to which they
could be subjected that really would degrade them beyond the

58
one to which they are degraded at the present time?" (292).
The question here, of course, presupposes the answer: NO.
Penetration is penetration, by penis or speculum; a sexually
active working-class woman is a penetrable body and can thus
have no logical objection to a speculum exam.
And, as we have seen, sexual women cannot be good
mothers. The pregnant fallen woman is a particularly
abominable beast. As Pickthorn says:"The fact is this, some
of these pregnant women are the worst of the prostitutes, and
have up to the very time of confinement connection with more
than one man in a night very likely, and to talk of a small
speculum hurting them when that is the case, I certainly think
is mis-stating the fact" (46). The pregnant sexual woman,
flying as she does in the face of the ideology of the domestic
woman, becomes a particular object of scorn.
This construction of the prostitute as a lying,
unfeeling, subhuman animal body with no rights also justified
a complete surveillance network with which to hunt them down.
This surveillance made every woman the appropriate object of
the police/medical gaze. (Olive Shcreiner was once detained
under these Acts, evidence that no woman in public space was
immune to the penetrative police gaze.) Additionally, there
was no clear definition of prostitution, so all working-class
women were subject to interrogation and arrest. Anniss
testifies that "In the case of a woman occasionally committing
herself with men, if we were to be acquainted with it, we

59
should, being governed by circumstances, endeavor to bring her
under the Act" (16). The official criteria for establishing
a woman as a prostitute were:
The tests of prostitution relied upon by the police
are stated by them to be as follows:—residence in
a brothel; solicitation in the streets; frequenting
places where prostitutes resort; being informed
against by soldiers and sailors; and lastly the
admission of the woman herself. (6)
These criteria give rise to enormous ambiguity. A
brothel could be defined as a lodging house in which
prostitutes were known to reside. But, since any poor urban
housing area could at various times have rooms let to women
making their living selling their sexual labor, as well as to
women selling their manual labor in sweatshops and factories,
"residence in a brothel" is hardly a specific charge.
Similarly, "solicitation" could mean speaking to a man in the
streets, and "frequenting places where prostitutes resort"
could mean walking home from work through Regent Street or
Piccadilly Circus. Moreover, "police often acted upon the
information obtained from the men in hospital" and forcibly
arrested women accused of giving infected men a venereal
disease (6).
The practice of arresting women on the reports of
diseased soldiers was a well established method of
surveillance in Malta, the first overseas military port to
come under the operation of the Acts. In Malta, "whenever a
man contracted any form of venereal disease in the fleet, the
ship's corporal generally took him to the place where he

60
contracted it, and any woman he reported as having given him
the disease was at once taken before the surgeon for
examination" (48). This discourse does not acknowledge the
possibility that a man may already have been infected and that
he thus spread the disease to women with whom he had sex.
While the role of military men spreading venereal disease was
a theme in repeal movement discourse, it held absolutely no
legitimacy within the medical/military/legal discourse of the
CDA. McClintock offers an interesting perspective on this,
arguing that "the Acts were designed less to abolish
prostitution than to place control of sex work in the hands of
the male state. The initial impetus came from the recent
blows to male national self-esteem in the arena of empire"
(288 ) .21
This lack of definition about who was and wasn't a
prostitute and the unreliable methods of informing against and
spying on women clearly enough demonstrate the extent to which
all women were possible targets of police arrest and medical
detention. But the full extent to which working-class women
21* •
I find McClintock's argument most interesting in its
link between military failure overseas and the domestic
treatment of women. This relation between sexual violence
towards women and national and gender identity is important.
We see manifestations of this in everything from rape as a
tactic to war (doesn't Bosnia loom largely in all of our
minds?) to programmatic opposition to and sexual harassment of
women in the only-now expanding male enclave of the military.
However, I do not accept McClintock's too-easy eguation of
"male" and "state." As I have already argued, I would place
the largely women-run opposition to the Contagious Diseases
Acts in the category of state agency.

61
are conflated with the diseased animal body of the prostitute
is perhaps most clearly shown in this testimony from the Royal
Commission reports:
Commissioner: Do not you find there are young women
who follow some trade, such as the selling of
lucifer matches, who are prostitutes in disguise?
Anniss: Yes, that is the most difficult class we
have, because they get about in the fields and
lanes at night, though the numbers are less than
they were years ago, they do a great deal of
damage, and sometimes communicate venereal disease
to men—very frequently. They travel about as
tinkers &c., who do anything but work, and do a
great deal of damage in communicating disease at
the present time. (22)
This discourse configures the contagious working-class woman's
body as threatening on two registers: she is the dirty
diseased poor; and she could evade state surveillance. She is
dangerous precisely because she "get[s] about in fields and
lanes at night." The product of her work cannot be visibly
ascertained (how many matches does a match-girl sell?), and
her body cannot be easily controlled. Anniss twice cites the
"damage" such women do.
Once a woman was registered as a prostitute and subject
to forced medical exams, it was nearly impossible to prove
herself "respectable." A woman who applied to have her name
removed from the police registers was the object of continued
surveillance and investigation to prove the validity of her
claim to respectability. What's more, the decision whether or
not to remove a woman's name from the register rested with the
police, whose often arbitrary assessments of "respectable"

62
behavior conflicted sharply with working-class women's
understanding of "respectability":
Commissioner: Supposing a woman said she was going
to live with a particular man and went to live in a
house with him, should you consider that sufficient
reason for taking her off the books?
Anniss: In that case she would have to make a
written application, and I should make inquiries as
far as possible whether she had ceased to be a
prostitute or not, and act accordingly. (31)
The surveillance thus extended into every area of working-
class women's lives, and continued throughout her residence in
towns subject to the Acts. And the surveillance was
formidable. Inspector Anniss details his surveillance
measures for determining the numbers of prostitutes in
Devonport and Plymouth:
I took a district each morning. At that time, I
had charge of the apprehension of stragglers and
deserters, having under me six men employed
specially for that purpose, called the water
police, and we had to visit all these houses for
the apprehension of those men, and I took the
number of prostitutes sleeping in each house on a
particular night, so many streets each day until I
had gone through the three towns, taking the number
of women in each house. (18)
In addition, the constables "visit the brothels, and report to
me any strangers found in them at night, also inform me if
they see women soliciting for prostitution who are not on the
register, and ascertain their residence, to enable me to see
them and bring them on the register if necessary" (30).
That many women were unjustly apprehended and imprisoned
under these acts is, of course, the fuel lighting the fire of
the LNA and similar repeal efforts. The numbers of women

63
subject to speculum examinations were staggering. Thomas
Russell Pickthorn, visiting surgeon to the Devonport district,
testified that he examined over 10,000 women in one year—
10,000, when the examinations were once every two weeks!
Despite the contradictions and logical confusions surrounding
definitions of "prostitutes" and "respectable" behavior, and
despite a decade worth of resistance from repeal groups, these
Acts remained in effect until 1886. The military, medical,
and legal arms of the state apparatus persisted in the belief
that "the causes which have reduced the number, and will
reduce it wherever the Acts go" of prostitutes is "good
advice, the influence of the police, and the hospital" (33).
Perhaps the most poignant account of the effect of these
acts upon the women whose lives they interrupted is from an
excerpt read during the investigation of Jane Sanders'
statement to the police after her arrest. When asked to
explain the statements given by Sanders, a woman whose
detention became a focal point of activity against illegal
confinement, M.M. Moore, Surgeon to the London Lock Hospital,
says: I am afraid you would not understand the answers."
After further prompting, Moore reads from Sanders' statement:
Question: Why were you brought to the Royal Albert
Hospital?
Answer. Brought there, like all other women, I
supposed, because all living this life have to be
brought here.
Question: Were you served with a notice to attend
at the surgeon's room or at the hospital, or did
you sign a voluntary submission?
Answer: I had a paper to attend to be examined,
and I was brought here like all other women.

64
Question: Are you now in a state of ill health?
Answer: No, sir, I am not.
Question: Do you wish to be inspected by a medical man
not connected with the hospital?
Answer: Yes, sir.
Question: Do you wish to apply to the magistrates
for an order for your discharge?
Answer: Yes, sir. (74-75)
I read "this" in Sanders' phrase "all living this life
have to be brought here" to refer, not to "prostitutes" per
se, but to poor working-class women subject to the
surveillance of the medical police. Read in this way,
Sanders1 statement hints at a fatalistic endurance of the
state's power over her. Counter to this, though, is the hint
we get of women who, subversively, learned how to manipulate
their positions under the CDA. Many women used certificates
discharging them from the Lock Hospital and certifying them as
"clean" to secure customers. This was such a common practice
(and one that scandalized the opposition to the Acts) that
women selling sex in garrison towns were referred to as "the
Queen's Women."22 The success with which many women used
their certificates to enhance their profits is evident in this
response from Dr. F. Row:
I fear that the improved status of these women may
eventually cause them to be regarded as a
22The Queens Women" refers both to the certificate, in her
majesty's name, certifying the women as free of disease, and
to the implication that, as prostitutes "servicing" Her
Majesty's Fleet, they were performing a sanctioned service to
the state. One of the opposition's major points of contention
was that the CDA's in effect legalized and controlled
prostitution, ensuring easy access to "safe" sex for military
personnel.

65
privileged well-cared-for class; and that to
prevent such a result there should be something
repressive as against the individuals who are
practicing crime. (70)
Clearly, it would not do for "prostitutes" to show the
signs of economic success: may feared that "virtuous" working-
class women would be tempted to a life of prostitution
because, compared to the poverty of factory girls, shop-
workers and domestic servants, prostitution could seem a
desirable profession. Row believes that, to prevent this, a
"repressive" measure, "as against the individuals who are
practicing crime," is called for. It is in this light that I
would like to consider the twice-monthly forced speculum exam.
Women reporting for examination were framed by their initial
encounter with the police requirement that they be registered
as prostitutes. The examination also threatened incarceration
in a hospital prison if the doctor reported a woman to be
diseased. Thus the twice-monthly ritual herding and medical
examination did function as a "repressive" measure, a way of
reminding "prostitutes" of who they were. The exam, by
assembling women for a medical inspection, conferred upon them
a group identity which functioned as both definition and
demarcation: the prostitute was defined against and kept away
from the respectable woman. Moreover, the exam itself
embodies aspects of both an external coding of the body (the
speculum is introduced into the body, writes the prostitute
body as accessible to and penetrable by the state) and an
incorporated sign (consistently taken into the body, the

66
speculum evokes a dimension in which, symbolically and
imaginatively, the incorporated speculum figures as an
extension of the prostitute body). The speculum exam thus
performed what Bourdieu calls the work of inculcation:
More convincingly than the external signs which
adorn the body (like decorations, uniforms, army
stripes, insignia, etc.)» the incorporated signs
(such as manner, ways of speaking—accents—, ways
of walking or standing—gait, posture, bearing—,
table manners etc. and taste) which underlie the
production of all practices aimed, intentionally or
not, both at signifying and at signifying social
position through the interplay of distinctive
differences, are destined to function as so many
calls to order, by virtue of which those who might
have forgotten (or forgotten themselves) are
reminded of the position assigned to them by the
institution. (123-24)
In case they "forget themselves," and think they have
legitimacy (conferred, perhaps, by the certificate, or by
profit), "prostitutes" must be reminded that they exist in the
margins, are "individuals who are practicing crime," and do
not, in fact, have legitimate subject status under the law.
The speculum exam was by no means the only "call to
order" reminding sexual working-class women of who they were.
Institutional narratives (Foundling Hospital petitions,
charity organization reports, religious and institutional
narratives), the popular press, rescue narratives, and novels
all performed this work of inculcation. In the following
chapter, I focus on narratives of seduction and fictional
representations of "the fall" as works of inculcation helping
to restructure working-class women's sexual relations

67
according to the ideology of the feminine ideal, the middle-
class domestic woman.

CHAPTER 3
WOMEN ON THE SCAFFOLD: BASTARDY AND ITS CONSEQUENCES IN
RUTH, ADAM BEDE, AND TESS OF THE d'URBERVILLES
Narratives of Seduction
The Royal Commission Investigations and police and
medical reports concerning prostitutes show that discourses
constructing women as sexual beings simultaneously construct
them as bestial and depraved. These constructions coexisted
with the peculiarly Victorian move to desexualize women:
Victorian discourses constructing the maternal, self-
sacrificing domestic woman elided earlier narratives of the
sexually desiring woman. As Ruth Perry argues, "historically
women had been perceived as lascivious and lustful creatures,
fallen daughters of Eve, corrupting and corrupted. But by the
middle of the eighteenth century they were increasingly
reimagined as belonging to another order of being: loving but
without sexual needs, morally pure, disinterested, benevolent,
and self-sacrificing" (115-116). Asexual women constructions,
however, presented a logical conundrum for Victorians
concerned with the "problem" of prostitution. If women lack
sexual feeling, how, then, does one account for the large
numbers of women living by means of their sexual bodies? As
Kalikoff argues, "for much of the century, the fallen woman
68

69
seemed to represent a national moral problem that assaulted
belief in the rational as thoroughly as murder did"
("Victorian Sexual Confessions" 99). Social purity writers,
trying to reconcile asexual women living by sexual work, "used
the idea of female passionlessness to deny that women played
any active role in prostitution: they portrayed women as
vulnerable through poverty or ignorance to the lust of men"
(Valverde 174-175). Narratives portraying innocent women
seduced by sexually insatiable men managed to maintain the
constructions of asexual women by explaining the fall into
prostitution as the result of man's sexual desire: within this
discourse, an innocent (virgin and unaware of sexual desire)
woman is seduced and corrupted by a guilty (sexually desiring
and designing) man.
While at one level seduction narratives maintained the
asexual woman construction necessary to the ideology of the
domestic woman, at a deeper level they masked fears of women's
sexual uncontainability. Within this discourse, women, even
if they do not experience desire, elicit it. The seduction
narrative's over-emphasis on an actively desiring male subject
at whose hands an innocent woman suffers is, as Kalikoff
argues, uncomfortably close to "the rhetoric of first-person
Victorian pornography" ("Sexual Confessions" 103). While on
one register these narratives are sympathetic to the suffering
of victimized women, on another they reproduce and redeploy
this victimization. Constance D. Harsh sees "reformers

70
preoccupation with women as victims" as "complicit with
efforts to limit the power and respect granted women in
English society" (Subversive Heroines 63). The (re)production
and (re)deployment of victim narratives was in part a response
to the "genuine dread of female sexual, social, and economic
autonomy" barely concealed in popular fiction and nonfiction
(Kalikoff "Falling Woman" 357). Clearly, narratives
representing the victimized woman were in the service of the
ideology of the domestic woman. This becomes particularly
clear when we juxtapose women's petitions for admission of
their children to the London Foundling Hospital with fictional
representations of fallen women. This juxtaposition also
reveals the mutual imbrication of narratives of seduction with
medico-legal narratives informing the Contagious Diseases Acts
(and the institutions of the hospital, court, and police
necessary to the implementation and administration of the
Acts).
The Foundling Hospital and Sexual Confession
There is a direct relation between the surveillance
networks investigating prostitutes, who have no access to the
word or to truth, and those investigating and establishing the
"truth" of women's petitions for their children's admission to
the Foundling Hospital. Established in 1747, the London
Foundling Hospital accepted the illegitimate children of women

71
• 23
who could prove themselves respectable and deserving of help.
Social disapproval of help offered to those perceived as
profligate exacerbated the hospital's reguirement for proof of
a woman's virtue. But, as Bernd Weisbrod in his important
study, "How to Become a Good Foundling in Early Victorian
London" argues:
The ability to deal with each case individually was
dependent on the development of the 'inquisitorial
technique' applied not only to the petitioner
herself but also in some degree to persons with
whom she had immediate social contact. Thus,
'restoring the mother to a course of Industry and
Virtue' became the second acknowledged object of
the Foundling Hospital. (197)24
The procedures for admission of children varied somewhat over
the years, but, by the mid 1800's, a complete system of
confession and investigation was in place to differentiate the
worthy victim from the profligate fallen woman. Battling
23William Acton's 1859 "Observations on Illegitimacy in
the London Parishes of St. Marleybone, St. Paneras, and St.
George's, Southwark" laments that "the existing Foundling
Hospital ... has ... ceased ... to carry out the true intent
and meaning of its founder. With a revenue of the present
value of ^11,000 a year, and with an assured income within the
present century (according to the statements of the Charity
Commissioners) of ££40,000 a year, this institution so wanders
from its legitimate path and from propriety of administration,
that each of its inmates costs it nearly SÍ360 before attaining
15 years of age, besides being unhealthy and unnecessarily
reared in the atmosphere of the metropolis; and has but a poor
start in life after all" (505).
4For an interesting comparison between London’s and
France's Foundling Hospital issues, see Jacques Donzelot’s
"The Preservation of Children" in The Policing of Families.
Donzelot sees popular images of working-class mothers as lax,
self-interested, and hopelessly incompetent as the "legacy of
an encounter between the working-class woman and state
assistance" (31) .

72
accusations of mismanagement, the Foundling Hospital
instructions specify that "no child can be admitted unless the
Committee is satisfied, after due enquiry, of the previous
good character, and present necessity of the Mother and that
the Father of the Child has deserted it and the Mother." The
1840 Charity Commissioners' Report specified that women had to
demonstrate that, "previous to committing the offence," they
had an "irreproachable character, but yielded to artful and
long-continued seduction, and an express promise of marriage"
(Weisbrod 205). To be good, they must also be able to provide
witnesses on their behalf; their stories of sexual
victimization had to be investigated by a team of social
workers, police and lawyers, and testified to by employers,
neighbors, doctors, families, and friends.
Weisbrod argues that women's disclosure of details of
their sexual intercourse—including how many times intercourse
occurred, where, under what circumstances—"forced the
petitioner into the position of a defendant in a criminal
trial and wrung from her a confession for an act which was not
necessarily regarded by her as an offence" (201).25 This
sexual confession, Weisbrod argues, "may be seen as an extreme
version of the Foucauldian equation of power and knowledge ...
For those mothers who had lost in the game of how to marry as
"5Kalikoff further argues that the sexual confession,
"clearly informed by the discourse of both criminal and
Christian confession . . . resonates as the moment when the
fallen woman is simultaneously penitent and criminal, caught
between divine forgiveness and human punishment" (112).

73
a domestic servant and who were prepared to disclose their
personal secrets, the confession offered at least a chance for
the ritual exchange of motherhood for respectability" (208-9).
Kalikoff argues that, in fact, Foundling Hospital
confessionals produced "a theater of penitence" in which "the
fallen woman was the drama's central figure, suggesting a
conflation of two familiar characters of popular melodrama,
the vulnerable heroine/victim and guilty sinner" ("Sexual
Confessions" 103).
Kalikoff's analysis of Foundling Hospital petitions as
"confessional" documents and the petitions' use of
"melodramatic" characterization is particularly important to
an intertextual reading of the ideological work of narratives
of the fall. Kalikoff argues that:
The confessions themselves become fictional
byproducts—eventually documents—of the erotic
process of voyeurism and humiliation in the sexual
confession ritual. The questioners, with their
rigidly eccentric rules and their tireless desire
to penetrate the applicant's best-protected
secrets, became actors in a public drama of erotic
exposure and dominance. ("Sexual Confessions" 102)
Petitioners, required to tell the story of their seduction,
were forced to reinscribe a plot which demanded that women be
coerced or tricked into sex, victimized, and deserted. The
petitions follow a very consistent narrative formula which
parallels the formula of popular novels: a woman meets a man,
falls in love, is used badly and then deserted, left pregnant
and alone in the world. And, like the novels, the "plot" of
the petitions is set in motion only when the two main

74
characters—the victimized woman and the victimizing man—
meet. The petitions invariably begin: "When first acquainted
with the father," and then go on to give the details of the
"seduction." But, while the narrative structure reproduces
popular seduction motifs, the details of the "seduction" often
tell a story very different than that of popular fiction.
These petitions provide a subtext which tells the story of
working-class women's (sexual) desire. There is, for example,
the case of Jane Sims, whose July 1875 petition reads:
When first acq (sic) with the F. (sic), I was
living with Mr. And Mrs. Alment (sp?), 4, Belgrave
Villas ... I met him when I was out walking in
October 1843 and he spoke to me, and we walked
together: I met him again by appointment and we
kept company, he visiting the house unknown to my
Master and Mistress: In April 1844, he seduced me
in my Master's House under promise of marriage.
c.c.2 was continued until September, when I left
Mrs. Alment on account of my condition.
Sims "kept company" with her lover for six months before
intercourse, and continued her relation with him for another
five months. This "confession" reads conspicuously like the
history of a working-class courtship which, under other
circumstances, could have easily led to marriage. Similarly,
Emily Shearing writes in July of 1873: "I met him [the father]
accidentally at first: he proposed marriage to me and I
accepted him, with the knowledge and sanction of my Master and
Mistress. I met him everyday and sometimes twice." And there
is Mary Ann Calvert, who "used to walk out with him; we were
bSexual intercourse is designated in these petitions by
the abbreviation c.c.

75
engaged." While there are many petitions detailing rape,
incest," and cruel abandonment, the largest part of the
petitions tell the story of working-class men and women
meeting, courting, and loving.28 Gillis argues that, "for
working-class women, fertility was still regarded as an asset
and that, if not for the middle-class's moral and legal
condemnation of pre-marital pregnancy, many of the couples
whose children ended up in the Foundling Hospital would
eventually have married." Foundling Hospital petitions reveal
the sexual behavior of these women "to be indistinguishable
from that of others of similar background" (133). Acton s
"The large numbers of incest cases was cause for
considerable alarm. It was widely believed that such cases
were the result of the crowded living conditions, lack of
privacy, and moral degeneracy of the poor. The conflation of
poverty with immorality constructed incest as a class
phenomenon. See James Kay Shuttleworth's The Moral and
Physical Condition of the Working Classes, Henry Mayhew's
London Labor and the London Poor, and Gerry Kearns and Charles
W.J. Withers, eds., Urbanizing Britain: Essays on Class and
Community in the Nineteenth Century.
28Weisbrod points out that the vast majority of all
applications for admission were refused. The increasing
emphasis on examining and investigating cases heavily weighted
admission decisions in the favor of women "who could keep up
appearances and ...provide some sort of decorum" (202). It is
thus guite logical that, as Gillis notes, upper domestic
servants comprise the majority of successful admissions.
Weisbrod argues that the over-representation of upper domestic
servants points to the vast numbers of working-class women,
lacking a comparable ability to "keep up appearances," who
were refused. I would argue that, in fact, those women whose
petitions were accepted proved the most domesticable, and
that, even within this sample, we see a great divergence
between working- and middle-class standards of acceptable
sexual and family relations
"’Using the fact that the greatest number of women
petitioning the Foundling Hospital were upper domestic

76
survey of illegitimacy draws similar conclusions. Indeed,
many social reformers of the time attributed problems of
illegitimacy to the living and laboring conditions preventing
working-class men and women from forming their own households
and raising children within the constraints of an urban
industrial economy. Acton believed that "could some slight
pecuniary encouragement be forthcoming, the father of the
child would marry the mother and become a reformed character"
("Observations" 494).
The Foundling Hospital petitions, then, do tell the
story of working-class women's sexual desire. But the
hospital institution—investigators, board of governors,
doctors, charity workers, staff—had a vested interest in
constructing seduction narratives in which asexual women were
victimized by sexually desiring men. The institution required
a proliferation of this narrative of seduction: women had to
tell and write their stories, get "witnesses" to retell and
rewrite parts of that story; investigators read the petitions,
questioned and re-questioned the women, their witnesses, their
neighbors and employers. If a woman was sufficiently
servants, Gillis argues that the conditions of servitude
imposed unmanageable constraints on these women. In this
"exclusively celibate occupation, marriage marked a definitive
end to a female servant's career" (121). Women servants were
expected to internalize the moral codes of their middle-class
employers, they were cut off from family-supervised courtships
and left to meet men on their own, and they would not be able
to continue domestic work while raising a family.
Additionally, the men with whom they become involved had to
move to keep employment.

77
established as a victim, then she could be helped. To be
helped (read saved), she must be penitent. She must have
suffered and learned a lesson from her suffering. If she had
appropriately suffered and was properly penitent—that is, if
she proved herself suitably domesticable—her child could be
taken off her hands and she would be returned to her place in
service, usually in a household as a domestic servant but
sometimes also in shops or factories. She was then "free" to
"pursue a life of virtue and care for other people's children"
until she married and began to labor in the service of her
legitimate children (Weisbrod 202).
This confessional structure of the petitions, then, was
part of the on-going (re)production of the fall with which the
middle-class moral reformers conducting the investigations
were so preoccupied. In both novels and Foundling Hospital
petitions, the good/asexual victim narrative elides woman's
sexual desire and amplifies man's sexual desire. The logic of
this narrative bifurcation collapses, though, when we compare
the "seducers" of the Foundling Hospital petitions to the
"seducers" in popular novels. Women's petitions to the
Foundling Hospital generally tell the story of same-class
relations broken off because of lack of money and the working-
class father's inability to support a wife and child. The
novel's seduction narrative, on the other hand, relies heavily
on an upper-class seducer who takes advantage of a young
woman's innocence and vulnerability. As Kalikoff notes,

78
"class is almost always a crucial element in the equation of
seduction" ("Falling Woman" 358). The novel does NOT tell the
story of working-class sexual and familial relations in which
premarital sex is not uncommon or particularly taboo, or in
which many women are more or less happily married after
pregnancy (an outcome clearly expected by many of the women
who successfully petitioned the Foundling Hospital).30 Within
the novel's narrative structure, all premarital or extra¬
marital sex results in pain and suffering. Given the
discrepancy between these popular narratives featuring the
suffering of the fallen woman and indications from Foundling
Hospital petitions that many working-class women still
perceived premarital sex as a normal aspect of courting, we
must ask what ideological work such narratives performed. Sex
outside of legitimate marriage was in the process of being
defined as deviant for working-class women, and, within this
discursive production, any unmarried sexually active woman was
a fallen woman. But, in order for working-class women to be
domesticated, they must accept middle-class sexual mores. The
Foundling Hospital's ritual of confession helped to
30It is true that the petition process demanded that the
successful candidate prove that she was seduced with promises
of marriage. It is thus possible that many of the
petitioners, in order to have their children accepted in the
Foundling Hospital, exaggerated the importance of marriage
proposals to their sexual involvements. But it is also true
that many of the petitions narrating "seduction" include
correspondence between the couples discussing marriage and the
future of the relationship. Obviously, a great many of these
women did believe that they would eventually marry their
lovers.

79
indoctrinate working-class women into middle-class sexual
mores: if the petitioner confessed the sin of her sex, she
could be relieved of her child and have another chance to lead
a "respectable" life. The confession, however, also entails
a penance: one cannot be absolved of sin unless one has done
penance for it. In this sense, "the confession of the fallen
woman stands at the heart of [Victorian] texts and contexts
because of the way it evoked the Victorian erotics of
punishment" (Kalikoff "Sexual Confessions" 111). The
unrepentant sexually active woman was bad. The repentant
sexually active woman could be redeemed, but only after she
repented for the sin of her sexual activity. And, of course,
sexually deviant women could not be good mothers or
appropriately raise children. (Ironically, it was precisely
those women deemed morally deficient who were left to raise
their own children as well as they could.) Narratives of
seduction in which fallen women suffer and are punished thus
performed the ideological work of disseminating the middle-
class ideal of the domestic woman into working-class culture
and effectively restructured working-class sexual relations.
The Novels
As Kalikoff notes, Foundling Hospital petitions and
institutional narratives appropriate the figures of melodrama
—the innocent victim/heroine and the guilty sinner. Clearly,
then, institutional and fictional narratives construct and are

80
constructed by each other. This chapter expands my analysis
of the ideological work performed by narratives of the fall to
include an analysis of this work in novels as well as
institutional documents. I examine narratives of seduction in
five novels: Elizabeth Gaskell's Ruth and Mary Barton, Charles
Dickens' David Copperfield, George Eliot's Adam Bede, and
Thomas Hardy's Tess of the d‘Urbervilles. I link Ruth, Adam
Bede, and Tess because each of these novels feature fallen
women who bear illegitimate children. Ruth is particularly
relevant for an analysis of the discourse of purity in which
working-class motherhood provides the opportunity for self-
sacrifice and redemption. Interestingly, Ruth also details
the method by which working-class women may be properly
domesticated. My analysis of Adam Bede reveals the
relationship between the "love of finery" discourse and fears
of working-class women's resistance to domestication.
Finally, my analysis of Tess shows how earlier narratives of
women's threatening sexual body underwrite even domestic woman
discourses in which women's sexuality is elided. I then go
on, in chapter four, to read Mary Barton and David
Copperfield for bourgeois, national, and imperial investments
in domesticating working-class women.
Ruth
Ruth's seduction narrative relies on those popular images
so important to Victorian reform and rescue narratives—the

81
sexually designing upper-class man and the asexual, innocent
working-class girl.31 Ruth's innocence makes her the perfectly
blameless victim. After a series of misadventures (she is
orphaned, put out to work, fired, and cast alone into the
world), Ruth is left utterly at the mercy of her would-be
seducer, Bellingham. Gaskell's narrative indicts all of the
social forces that contribute to a woman's fall—the male
seducer, employers too ready to cast young women alone into
the world, the parents and adults who fail in their
responsibility to supervise, educate, and protect young women.
Though the narrative insists that all of these factors are
culpable in Ruth's fall, it is nevertheless Ruth who is
morally responsible for her fall. That is, her redemption
requires that she internalize the middle-class sexual codes of
31Amanda Anderson has already done an excellent analysis
of Gaskell's critique of the role romance and melodrama play
in the discursive production of prostitution. She argues that
Ruth exposes the relationship between foolish romanticism and
young women's susceptibility to seduction. Moreover, it
emphasizes the socially constituted nature of fallenness
(129). While my work has been informed by Anderson's
sensitive critique of agency, our emphases are somewhat
different. Anderson posits Gaskell's "ideal realm of recovery
and redemption" as "a domestic harmony secured by sympathetic
communing" (127). I am interested in analyzing the
constituents of this domestic harmony. Anderson concedes that
"Gaskell's failure to overcome the problem of eclipsed or
attenuated consciousness" reminds us of "the very real
asymmetries of class and gender that structured her social
world" (139). My concern is more material: what are these
asymmetries of class and gender? What relation do they bear
to the industrial capitalist city and imperialism? How do
they construct discourses of motherhood, family, state, and
work? What is the ideological work of these Victorian
discourses and how do they inform contemporary gender debates?

82
which she was ignorant and judge herself and her actions by
those codes before her suffering from and penance for her
sexual transgression can redeem her.
Ruth transgresses, not because of her sexual desire, but
because others failed to teach, care for, and protect her.
Ruth in fact already has the qualities of the Victorian angel
in the house: like Ruth, the "angel" is "loving but without
sexual needs, morally pure, disinterested, benevolent, and
self-sacrificing" (Perry 115-116). In fact, Ruth is so
innocent that, until she overhears an accusation against her
as a "bad" woman, she does not even realize that her
relationship to Bellingham is "sinful."32 While Bellingham
bears the direct blame for Ruth's fall (and Mrs. Mason, her
guardian, parents, and old servants the indirect blame), Ruth,
in order to be redeemed, must accept herself as a "sinner" and
redeem herself through a life of spiritual and physical self-
sacrifice and labor. This tension between purity and sin
structures the novel: Ruth is simultaneously innocent and
fallen, free of sexual desire but guilty of sexual activity.
3 Ruth's "innocence" raises several important issues,
chief among which is that, as Anderson points out,
"fallenness" is "socially constituted." Ruth is unaware of
the social constructions defining sex outside of marriage as
sinful. The novel presents Ruth's ignorance as a consequence
of her mother's death—Ruth had nobody to teach her middle-
class sexual mores. Ruth's ignorance also highlights the
importance of mothers indoctrinating daughters into the
domestic ideology. She is vulnerable to seduction because she
"was too young when her mother died to have received any
cautions or words of advice respecting the subject of a
woman's life" (I 89). Her mother did not warn her about men
like Bellingham.

83
The narrative thus preserves Ruth's blamelessness while
simultaneously requiring her reform. Significantly, then, a
religious redemption requires a social and political
domestication.
Despite her "innocence," Ruth's redemption requires her
suffering and penance. Before Thurston takes her in, Ruth's
understanding that the world thinks badly of her makes her
feel a "sorrowful humiliation" (I 192). And, after
Bellingham deserts her, Thurston finds her suffering for her
sexual transgression. He comes across her "crouched up like
some hunted creature, with a wild, scared look of despair" (I
194). In one sense, as Anderson argues, Ruth's suffering
through the failure of her relationship with Bellingham is
part of Gaskell's critique of the romance plot. Young women,
because they dream of being swept away by Prince Charming, are
vulnerable to seduction and abandonment by ruthless men. But,
in another sense, the narration of Ruth's fall works to
demarcate and segregate the classes. Ruth's fall is defined
as much by her class transgression as by her sexual
transgression. Supposedly, if the primary constituent of the
fall is premarital sex and illegitimacy, Ruth could be
redeemed by legal marriage and legitimate motherhood. But
when Bellingham, discovering that Ruth has borne his child,
offers to marry her, Ruth must refuse. Within this narrative,
marrying Bellingham constitutes a spiritual fall. She tells
him that:

84
All the days of my years since I have gone about
with a stain on my hidden soul—a stain which made
me loathe myself, and envy those who stood spotless
and undefiled; which made me shrink from my child,
from Mr. Benson, from his sister, from the innocent
girls whom I teach—nay, even I have cowered away
from God himself; and what I did wrong then, I did
blindly to what I should do now if I listened to
you. (II 313)
Even if we accept that Ruth's "stain" is her illicit
intercourse with Bellingham, we must still ask what sin she
would commit by marrying him and making Leonard his legitimate
heir. Ruth sees marriage to Bellingham as spiritually
dangerous because he is morally corrupt and proximity to him
could corrupt their son. Since Ruth works out her redemption
through her devoted self-sacrifice to Leonard, to put him in
peril would negate the grounds on which she has earned
redemption. But the ideology of the domestic woman assumes
man's sexual desire and moral fallibility, and relies upon the
domestic woman to be a moral guide and to contain male sexual
desire. Thus Bellingham’s moral shortcomings do not
sufficiently explain why Ruth cannot marry Bellingham and
restore him to a path of moral virtue. The threat of a
spiritual fall is, however, comprehensible when we understand
that Ruth's transgression is as much about class as it is
about sex. It is no more acceptable for her to marry above
her class than it is for her to have sex outside of marriage.
Conveniently, the demands of spiritual redemption are in the
service of a domesticating project that secures the labor of
working-class women for middle-class homes and institutions.

85
Ruth's redemption, then, requires her reform. When the
Bensons take her in, they embark not only on her spiritual
education but also on her domestic education. She learns good
housekeeping and domestic economy as well as scripture and
moral philosophy. She is redeemed in part through her
domestication. But the domestication of working-class women
also required redefining their maternal duties. Working-class
motherhood was being restructured according to bourgeois
ideology, and this required putting the domesticated working-
class woman's labor in the service of her children. When
Thurston discovers that Ruth is pregnant, he sees her child as
her opportunity for spiritual purification. He believes that:
The little innocent babe ... may be God's messenger
to lead her back to Him. Think again of her first
words—the burst of nature from her heart! Did she
not return to God, and enter into a covenant with
Him—'I will be so good?' Why, it draws her out of
herself! If her life has hitherto been self-
seeking, and wickedly thoughtless, here is the very
instrument to make her forget herself, and be
thoughtful for another. Teach her (and God will
teach her, if man does not come between) to
reverence her child; and this reverence will shut
out sin,—will be purification. (I 243)
Thurston's speech reveals the importance of motherhood to the
ideology of domesticity. Motherhood emerges as a sacrifice of
oneself to one's children, a sacrifice in which the sin of sex
is purified. Ruth may be redeemed—purified—by forgetting
herself in her child. Ironically, Ruth's redemption is
possible only because the Bensons take her in. Left on her
own, she could not have supported herself and Leonard through
the legitimate work available to her, much less redeemed

86
herself through a self-sacrificial devotion to his needs.
This indicates the impossibility of "redemption" for most
single working-class mothers (bourgeois homes did not
generally open their doors to them) and the centrality of the
domestic woman's role in the home (she must be at home in
order to be a good mother).
Adam Bede
As we see dramatized in Ruth, social purity discourse was
characterized by the paradoxical argument that the victimized
woman was both innocent of sexual desire and guilty of sexual
activity. By attributing sexual desire to the victimizing
male, seduction narratives negotiated the tension between the
contradictory beliefs in the fallen woman’s sexual innocence
and her sexual guilt which required her redemption and
reformation. Narratives attributing woman's fall to a love of
finery performed a similar function. Valverde argues that
William Acton popularized woman's passionless but sinful
nature by explaining women's fall into prostitution as a
result of their desire for fine dress and ornament (175).
Valverde quotes Acton, a prominent physician and a proponent
of the Contagious Diseases Acts:
Every one now, I believe, admits that
uncontrollable sexual desires of her own play but a
little part in inducing profligacy of the female.
Strong passions, save in exceptional cases, at
certain times, and in advanced stages of
dissipation, as little disturb the economy of the
human as they do that of the animal female. ... If
I seek to number the operative causes other than

87
passion of the woman, I am met on the very
threshold of the task by vanity, vanity, and then
vanity—for what but this are love of dress and
admiration, and what sacrifices will not tens of
thousands of the uneducated make to gain these!
(175)
Hetty Sorrel in Adam Bede exemplifies this type of
passive but sinful female nature. Adam Bede plays out a
seduction narrative between Hetty Sorrel, local cottager, and
Arthur Donnithorne, local squire and heir to the estates.
Hetty Sorrel falls, in part, because Arthur Donnithorne
seduces her, but this seduction narrative is more complicated
than that in Ruth. Whereas Ruth is presented as innocent and
virtually blameless (though morally responsible) in her fall,
Hetty bears a more direct responsibility for hers. Unlike
Ruth, Hetty has caretakers (though, admittedly, her caretakers
are her aunt and uncle, not the all-important domestic mother
and father) to teach and protect her. But Hetty's vanity and
her love of finery mark her as transgressive. Moreover, her
vain desire for costuming makes her susceptible to Arthur's
seduction. And, as Judith Mitchell notes in The Stone and the
Scorpion, Hetty is scorned "for being aware of the power of
[her] beauty, and for using that power" (93). Though she is
presented as having no sexual desire of her own, she does have
the power to elicit male sexual desire. The text explicitly
links Hetty to prostitutes through her aesthetic pleasure in
her own physicality and the use to which she puts her beauty.
We see this connection relatively early in the text, when,

88
after Hetty puts a flower Adam gives her in her hair, he
observes:
Ah ... that's like the ladies in the pictures at
the Chase; they've mostly got flowers or feathers
or gold things i' their hair, but somehow I don't
like to see 'm: they allays put me i' mind o' the
painted women outside the shows at Treddles on
Fair. (176)
The text constructs Hetty placing a flower behind her hair as
a "love of finery," and "Hetty's love of finery was just the
thing that would most provoke [Adam's] mother, and he himself
disliked it as much" (176). However, the fall attributable
to the desire for fine clothes and vanity is specifically tied
to class. While the text consistently condemns vanity and
praises plain dress, it is only the working-class women who,
by virtue of vanity, is, ipso facto, fallen. Mrs. Irwine, "a
beautifully aged brunette," wears "pure white cambric and
lace," "pearls, diamonds, and turquoises" on her hands, and is
so ornately costumed that the narrator speculates "it must
take a long time to dress that old lady in the morning!" (49).
The text caustically critiques such display, but this critique
is within the acknowledgment of her right to display: Mrs.
Irwine "is clearly one of those children of royalty who have
never doubted their right divine and never met with any one so
absurd as to question it" (49). She dislikes her daughters
because they do not cultivate their aesthetic presentation:
they are "inartistic figures crowding the canvas of life
without adequate effect" (58). Mrs. Irwine is thus also
linked to vanity and a "love of finery" (and hence to Hetty),

89
without, however, being threatened with a "fall." As
Valverde argues, "what was or was not finery depended on the
socio-economic and moral status of the wearer" (169).
Hetty's self-adornment (also likened to the pictures of
the "ladies" at the Chase) thus links her both up to ladies
and down to prostitutes. Both associations constitute a
transgression—one of class bounds and the other of sexual
bounds. When, at the games after Arthur's birthday feast,
Arthur suggests that a "grim-looking gown" is not an adequate
prize for young Bess, Miss Lydia says: "I would not think of
encouraging a love of finery in young women of that class"
(216). The discourses of fallenness attributable to laziness,
love of dress and leisure, clearly articulate the centrality
of class transgression to working-class women's "fall." Hetty
desires jewelry, fine clothes, leisure, comfort, ease. In
short, she desires upward social mobility:
Hetty's dreams were all of luxuries: to sit in a
carpeted parlour, and always wear white stockings;
to have some large beautiful ear-rings, such as
were all the fashion; to have Nottingham lace round
the top of her gown, and something to make her
handkerchief smell nice, like Miss Lydia
Donnithorne's when she drew it out at church; and
not to be obliged to get up early or be scolded by
anybody. She thought, if Adam had been rich and
could have given her any of these things, she loved
him well enough to marry him. (83)
Hetty does not want a life of work; she wants a life of
leisure. She is not interested in putting the rest of the
world's needs before her own, is not maternal, and is not a
good daughter:

90
It was wonderful how little she seemed to care
about waiting on her uncle, who had been a good
father to her—she hardly ever remembered to reach
him his pipe at the right time without being told,
unless a visitor happened to be there, who would
have a better opportunity of seeing her as she
walked across the hearth. (124)
The text eguates Hetty's failure to anticipate her uncle's
desire (she does not have his pipe ready for him without being
asked) with her vanity (she does like to strut before
visitors). This narrative representation places women's
bodies and labor in the service of men's desires (he should,
after all, have his pipes) and marks women's failure to meet
men's desires as aberrant. Added to this, the good domestic
woman puts her body in the service of her legitimate children
as well as her husband, father, uncles, brothers. But Hetty
"would have been glad to hear that she should never see a
child again," is not moved by "the downy chicks peeping out
from under their mother's wing," and never formed an
attachment to her cousin Totty (125). In short, as Mrs.
Poyser concludes, "her heart's as hard as a pebble" (125).
The narrative condemns Hetty as a bad daughter, a bad mother,
a bad wife, a bad woman.
To refuse the role of worker in the growing industrial
economy, then, is Hetty's primary transgression, a
transgression which is constructed as sexual. Irwine cautions
Arthur against "feeding her vanity and filling her little
noddle with the notion that she's a great beauty, attractive
to fine gentlemen," or he "will spoil her for a poor man's

91
wife" (84). Once she hopes for a lady's life, "her short
poisonous delights" will:
Spoil for ever all the little joys that had once
made the sweetness of her life—the new frock ready
for Treddleston fair, the party at Mr. Britton's at
Broxton wake, the beaux that she would say 'No' to
for a long while, and the prospect of the wedding
that was to come at last when she would have a silk
gown and a great many clothes all at once. These
things were all flat and dreary to her now;
everything would be a weariness, and she would
carry about for ever a hopeless thirst and longing.
(261)
This sentimental representation of "the little joys that had
once made the sweetness of her life" constructs Hetty as
foolish for dallying with Arthur and not recognizing Adam's
value. Her desire is represented as excessive—after all, at
her wedding she would have a "silk gown and a great many
clothes at once." But on what grounds is Hetty's desire
excessive? The narrative constructs as excessive the
working-class woman's desire for middle-class lifestyles.
Above and beyond all else, we cannot have women moving above
their stations. Villainizing the desire for upward social
mobility suggests middle-class fears of being unable to
contain the working classes, to keep them in their place.33
33The Poyser's, part of the dying breed of tenant-farmers
occupying a middling position in the old land/tenant
relations, point to an anxiety-producing instability of class
boundaries in the emerging industrial economy. Arguably, the
desire to demarcate class boundaries intersects the increasing
difficulty of doing so. A wide range of "working-class"
identities and socio-economic conditions made labeling
somewhat difficult. For instance, Adam (who has a trade and
a business) could be either prosperous working-class or lower
middle-class. How then does the middle-class ensure the
privilege of its position? Hence the fear of upward social

92
Constructing Hetty's fall as sexual reduces her desire for
upward social mobility, effectively neutralizing that desire,
first by not acknowledging it as such (and, without
acknowledging the desire as legitimate, without naming it, it
never has to be addressed); and second by renaming it
something else (vanity), which makes Hetty culpable in her own
fall, guilty not just for what has been reduced and renamed as
a sexual transgression but also for the circumstances leading
up to that transgression. Moreover, this reduction contains
working-class women's desire for upward social mobility within
a discourse that makes sexual transgression punishable, the
transgressor a victim of her own folly as much as of her
mobility speaks as much about middle-class fears of losing
class status as it does about fears of being able to contain
the working classes. As Amanda Anderson argues, narrative
repetitions of the fallen woman's attenuated agency serve in
part to reassure middle class [male] subjects of their own
autonomy.

93
seducer's machinations34. The woman who transgresses will
suffer, and suffer mightily!
Hetty's suffering is narrated within the context of a
religious discourse that constructs "deep unspeakable
suffering" as a "baptism, a regeneration, the initiation into
a new state" (329). Hetty's suffering is her "baptism of
fire" from which her soul may emerge "full of new awe and new
pity" (330). It is, indeed, an ecstatic religious experience.
When Hetty is in jail, awaiting her execution, Dinah tells
Adam:
34Mrs. Poyser's tirade against domestic servants provides
yet another angle from which to view the threat posed by
working-class women adopting the signifiers (clothing,
adornment) of the middle class. She decries valets as
"neither a common man nor a gentleman" (263). She criticizes
Hetty's desire to be a lady's maid on the grounds that Hetty
"thinks there's nothing belongs to being a lady's maid but
wearing finer clothes nor she was born to." Simultaneously,
Mr. Poyser objects to Hetty earning her living as a servant;
this compromises the family's pride in always having "eaten
their own bread and cheese as fur back as anybody knows"
(262). Hetty thus occupies a border between upper working-
class and lower middle-class. Interestingly, then, that Hetty
desires a clothing finer "nor she was born to," signifies a
paradoxical fall from independent self-sufficience into
servitude as well as a pretentious aspiration to a higher
class status. The greater availability of the previously
exclusive signifiers of class (silk, ribbons, lace) made it
increasingly difficult to determine a person's class by virtue
of her dress. Additionally, the new market opened a wide
range of new jobs, most of which one was not born to. An
explosion of new professions (domestic servitude among them)
to manage the explosion of goods inevitably destabilized
formerly rigid identity categories. The desire to read the
station to which one was born signifies a fear of the fluidity
of identity in the industrial capital state. For a
particularly insightful development of the relation between
the imperial market and identity structures, see Anne
McClintock's Imperial Leather, especially chapter five, "Soft-
soaping Empire."

94
I must hasten back to her, for it is wonderful how
she clings now, and was not willing to let me out
of her sight. She used never to make any return to
my affection before, but now tribulation has opened
her heart. (353)
Similarly, when Adam comes to visit her in jail, Hetty is
"clinging close to Dinah; her cheek was against Dinah's. It
seemed as if her last faint strength and hope lay in that
contact, and the pitying love that shone out from Dinah's face
looked like a visible pledge of the Invisible Mercy" (355).
At the last, Hetty is humbled. She tells Adam "I'm very sorry
... I behaved very wrong to you ... will you forgive me ...
before I die?" (355). She begs Adam to kiss her again, for
all she has "been so wicked," and further begs that he tell
Arthur she "forgives" him.
Hetty's fall brings about her "purification" through the
anguish of her suffering. Through this purification she is
stripped of the fleshly beauty of corporeal femininity and
endowed with the spiritual beauty of the domestic woman. When
she faints from the news that the Loamshire Militia has left
Windsor and she cannot obtain refuge with Arthur, Eliot
writes: "Hetty ... had lost her miserable consciousness and
looked like a beautiful corpse" (292). Hetty's death sentence
for infanticide35 conjures additional images of her as a
35Hetty's death sentence for infanticide intersects an
important social and legal debate of the mid-1800's. On the
one hand, this sentence is so extreme as to be almost socially
unrecognizable. Legal and medical documents of the period are
full of complaints that many infant deaths, suspected to be
infanticide, were never recorded or reported as such. Even in
the cases of certain infanticide (most of which were never

95
corpse. The narrative anticipates the moment at which Hetty
is to "be hanged by the neck till [she] be dead" (337).
Though Arthur arrives at the last minute with an order
commuting her death sentence to transportation, both the
original death sentence and the subseguent order of
transportation are, within contemporary legal practice,
unusually harsh punishments for infanticide. And, long before
Hetty's "fall," Dinah imagines "a thorny thicket of sin and
sorrow, in which she saw the poor thing struggling torn and
bleeding, looking with tears for rescue and finding none"
(127).
We must ask if the detail with which Hetty's suffering
and death are imagined does not, indeed, point as much to a
desire to punish transgressive women as it does to a sympathy
for them. Hetty goes so far as to name Dinah’s concern for
salvation as a punishment. She asks Dinah: "Why do you come
to frighten me? I've never done anything to you. Why can't
you let me be?" (129). This narrative investment in Hetty's
suffering and punishment points to the novel's participation
in the ideological work of domesticating working-class women.
And, while the text configures Dinah as Hetty's savior, we
must ask if she is not, instead, the foreboding of Hetty's
actually tried) prison and transportation sentences were rare,
and death sentences almost unheard of. A growing reaction
against suspected infanticides did eventually lead to the
Infant Life Protection Act of 1872. For a fuller discussion
of the legal issues surrounding infanticide, see Ellen Ross'
Love and Toil, chapters Six and Seven.

96
fall. Dinah, the spiritualized woman, appears as a death
image, "covered with her long white dress, her pale face full
of subdued emotion, almost like a lovely corpse into which the
soul has returned charged with sublimer secrets and a sublimer
lover" (128). She is shrouded, her flesh completely stripped
of desire. She is a "lovely corpse" that experiences no
"selfish jealousies" (127-28). The recurring corpse images
suggest that it is precisely woman's fleshly corporeality that
must be excised from images of the new domestic woman. We see
within Dinah's narrative of redemption a drive to erase all
signs of woman's sexuality. This narrative elevates the
incorporeal woman without human desire. Hetty's suffering
transforms her "pleasure-seeking nature" (129). She is purged
of desire, her flesh "withered up" and stripped of her
"woman's soul."
In this bifurcated flesh/spirit world, Dinah chooses the
spirit over the flesh, the word over the body. She recalls
"the happy hours [she's] had preaching, when [her] heart was
filled with love, and the Word was given to [her] abundantly"
(34). But Dinah's access to the word is grounded on her
disavowal of her body. She rejects marriage and motherhood:
From my childhood upwards I have been led towards
another path; all my peace and my joy have come
from having no life of my own, no wants, no wishes
for myself, and living only in God and those of his
creatures whose sorrows ad joys he has given me to
know. (390)
By virtue of renouncing her physical self (marriage, children,
desires or wishes for her own life), Dinah occupies a border

97
between woman/animal body and male/word-truth-law. It is
Dinah's word that structures Hetty's confession. Dinah tells
Hetty that they "are before God" and "He is waiting for you to
tell the truth" (347). While Dinah does have, via preaching,
access to the word, her right to this word is disputed
throughout the text. Ultimately, Dinah gives up her
preaching, her access to the word, and accepts her role as
domestic wife and mother. However, before Dinah can become
Adam's wife, Hetty, the object of his sexual desire, must be
removed and Adam must recognize his higher domestic love for
Dinah.36 Concurrently, Dinah must realize her love for Adam,
which requires both that she renounce her marginal access to
the word and that she be relegated back to the body. She
acquiesces in the church's decision to "forbid the women
preaching." She consents to Adam's judgement that "most o'
the women do more harm nor good with their preaching" and sees
it "right to set th' example o' submitting" (413).
Ironically, Adam (in Dinah's silent presence) delivers the
speech informing Seth that Dinah has given up preaching. She
is reduced to "a figure ... com[ing] out of the house...and
36Interestingly, three of the five novels I analyze have
plots which center around the death/removal of an early and
inappropriate object of male desire (the "fallen" woman) and
the subsequent marriage to a properly domesticated woman.
Tess is killed and Angel marries Liza-Lu, the "spiritualized"
image of Tess. Hetty is transported and Adam marries Dinah.
Dora dies and David marries Agnes. Moreover, two of these
women (Tess and Dora) request that their husbands/lovers marry
the desexed domestic woman, a self-sacrificing request which
acknowledges that they are unsuitable mates and facilitates
the transfer of male desire to suitable mates.

98
shading her eyes with her hands as she looks for something in
the distance." Now more corporeal than spiritual, Dinah has
a "sweet pale face," which is "a little fuller, to correspond
to her more matronly figure." She ushers her children out of
doors to await the return of the father. Having turned her
eyes from God to Adam, she becomes, like Adam's mother,
Lizbeth, "always on the look out for Adam, and could see him
sooner than other folks" (412).
It is far easier to negotiate the narrative
transformation from spiritual woman to domestic mother than
from sexual woman to domestic mother. The ideology of the
domestic woman requires that motherhood be detached from
sexual desire (Perry 129). The mother's body maintains its
asexual respectability by virtue of her physical body being in
the service of her children. We must not forget that the
working-class woman's domesticated body is a commodity, and
her domestic labor essential to the industrial state." As
well as household management and child bearing and rearing,
this labor includes keeping husbands and sons fit for and
3 Anne McClintock argues that:
The striking difference between the rationalizing
of the market and the rationalizing of housework is
that the latter is rationalized so as to render
women's work invisible and to thereby disavow its
economic value. The rationalizing of domestic
labor in the nineteenth century involved massive
expenditures of effort that went unquantified and
uncalculated, since such work had to be excluded,
as far as possible, from the rational market. (172)
The invisible nature of women's domestic work is especially
important for working-class women, who often labored in
middle-class homes as well as their own.

99
willing to work in the industrial city. Novels, which
disseminated narratives punishing undomesticated working-class
women and celebrating domesticated women, played an important
role in the discursive (re)production of the cult of
domesticity. Working-class women had to be presented as
desiring their labor and renouncing upward social mobility.
Hetty, whose transgressive desire crosses class and sexual
bounds, also refuses her role as a domesticated working-class
woman. Her narrative punishment is thus part of the novel's
dissemination of a new code of acceptable, respectable
motherhood, a code within which there is absolutely no place
for illegitimate children or unmarried (or married after
pregnancy) mothers.38 This dissemination of bourgeois
ideologies of the domestic woman and respectable motherhood
effectually helped to criminalize working-class women's sexual
existence outside of legitimate marriage.
In the new worker-state, then, women must be
confined to the home as respectable wives and mothers.
Illegitimate children, chief among all things, disrupt woman's
capacity to labor in the service of the state (at the micro
and macro levels). Hetty's pregnancy is a double
transgression: it prevents her from performing legitimate
38As we will see in Tess, within Joan's paradigm, it would
have been perfectly acceptable for Hetty and Arthur to marry,
or, failing that, for Hetty and Adam to marry and raise
Arthur's child together as though it were Adam's. That this
is not within Hetty's paradigm marks Adam Bede as part of the
on-going project to domesticate working-class women.

100
labor in the service of the state, and it disrupts Adam's
labor. Adam must go to look for her, and, in his absence,
"the business would be wanting him sadly" (309). The work he
has begun is left undone, and his realization that Hetty has
run away takes all the pleasure out of his work: "He threw
himself on the bench and stared dully at the wood and the
signs of work around him, wondering if he should ever come to
feel pleasure in them again ... surrounded by the familiar
objects that seemed for ever robbed of their charm"(309).
Moreover, he cannot work the entire time Hetty is in prison
and awaiting her sentence (319). Since one of the domestic
woman's jobs is to facilitate labor, Hetty, in disrupting
Adam's labor, is guilty of yet another transgression. As
Donzelot has pointed out, domesticating women is the key to
domesticating men:
The strategy of familializing the popular strata in
the second half of the nineteenth century rested
mainly on the woman . . . and added a number of tools
and allies for her to use: primary education,
instruction in domestic hygiene, the establishment
of workers’ garden plots, and Sunday holidays (a
family holiday, in contrast to the Monday holiday,
which was traditionally taken up with drinking
sessions). ... In practice, the woman was brought
out of the convent so that she would bring the man
out of the cabaret; for this she was given a
weapon—housing—and told how to use it: keep
strangers out so as to bring the husband and
especially the children in. (40)
Good women and good homes produce good workers. Bad women and
bad homes produce bad workers: lazy, shiftless, unmanageable.
Above all else, the working-class must labor, and the working-

101
class woman is the key to this labor. If she is domesticated,
so too will working-class men be.
Within this discourse, one does not work out of
necessity, but because it is intrinsically fulfilling. Adam
swears that "there's nothing but what's bearable as long as a
man can work" (95). At no point is the labor of work ever
represented as distasteful to the good working-class man or
woman. We do not see broken backs, malnutrition, early
deaths, women suffering from incessant lactation, men dying
from consumption, hands cracking from cold, heat, exhaustion,
cuts bleeding, infection, illness. Work is abstracted, the
body elided, and the ordeal of the laboring body turned into
the ideal of the good working-class. Adam Bede is an exemplary
celebration of working-class domesticity and labor. Adam, we
read, "was not an average man. Yet such men as he are reared
here and there in every generation of our peasant artisans—
with an inheritance of affections nurtured by a simple family
life of common need and common industry" (168). The key to
the nurturing family life is, of course, women's labor. As
Francis L. and Monica A. Fennell point out, "Lisbeth
Bede...rises early to fix Adam's breakfast and will not
believe her day's work is over until she can put out his late
supper" (239). Adam, the good son with the domestic mother,
constructs his identity in part against his father, Matthias.
Thias leaves his work undone, drinks, and is unproductive.
Next to Thias's failure as father and head of the family, Adam

102
(appropriately named!) "is like the patriarch Joseph, for his
great skill and knowledge and the kindness he shows to his
brother and his parents" (77-78). Adam is the new Abraham,
the hope for the modern state. Because of his skill and
industry, Arthur chooses him to manage the forests. Adam is:
Intent on schemes by which the roads might be
improved that were so imperfect all through the
country, and on picturing all the benefits that
might come from the exertions of a single country
gentleman, if he would set himself to getting the
roads made good in his own district. (304)
Adam's skill and industry indicate that he is the proper
representative of the new industrial state. Agruably, Adam
Bede's retrospective narrative, which opens in 1799 and closes
in 1801, is about this transition from the old state to the
new. This becomes particularly clear when we read it through
the characters of Arthur Donnithorne and Dinah Morris. The
plot develops around their concurrent return to Hayslope and
the Donnithorne estate. Not yet 21, Arthur occupies the
liminal position of heir waiting to inherit the Donnithorne
estate. Interestingly, his birthday feast marks a crucial
transfer of power, not, as we might expect, from the old
squire to Arthur, but from Arthur to Adam. Arthur names Adam
as the manager of his forests. This is especially important
given that Arthur leaves the Chase shortly after achieving
majority. Arthur's departure leaves Adam virtually in charge,
thus effectively transferring power from the old families to
the new state. The novel closes in 1801 with a scene of
triumphant domesticity: Adam and Dinah married, with children.

103
The narrative, which literally crosses the
eighteenth/nineteenth century border, thus (re)inscribes two
of the most important events of the nineteenth century: the
decline of the old aristocracy and the rise of the domestic
woman.
Teas.
Tess is the most exaggerated example of the ways in which
narratives of sexually desiring men seducing innocent and
sexually unaware women reveal earlier discourses of woman's
threatening sexual body. This text also clarifies the
punitive quality of Victorian narratives of the fallen woman's
suffering, as well as the erotics of punishment such
narratives inevitably conjure. The seduction narratives in
Tess both reinscribe and problematize the innocent victim of
seduction narrative.39 The Alec/Tess seduction story follows
the popular narrative structure in which an innocent (often
country) girl is unscrupulously taken advantage of by a man
39Alec is from the capitalist middle-class, new money
dressing itself up in an old aristocratic name. Alec's
ambiguous identity embodies an important dimension of the
extremely complex class demarcations with which the Victorians
struggled. If, as Armstrong argues, the domestic novel helped
to consolidate middle-class hegemony, this consolidation was
far from seamless. While power was certainly shifting from
the pre-industrial land-based rule of the aristocracy to an
industrial money/commodity rule by the capitalists, this shift
(arguably still underway) was by no means uniform or complete.
The middle-/upper-class boundary presented as many
definitional and demarcation problems as did the middle-
/working-class boundary. The Alec/Tess seduction narrative,
which engages issues of legitimacy, right, and national
identity, engages several aspects of that confusion.

104
superior to her in class and worldliness. According to this
plot, she is invariably ruined: she suffers severely for her
"fall" and dies as either a direct or indirect result of it.
In its broadest parameters, Tess too follows this structure.
Tess is the vulnerable and innocent country maid seduced by
the designing upper-class rake. Though she does marry Angel
Clare, who is also superior to her in class and education,
this marriage fails when he realizes she is not the pure
country maid he imagined her. Her marriage is thus ruined as
a result of her early experience with Alec and the child that
resulted from it.
Mary Jacobus's comparison of manuscript versions of Tess
to the serial and book publications reveals that, in the
rejected drafts of the book, Tess was not so "pure, " Alec was
not so villainous and Angel was not so rigid. She argues that
Hardy's difficulty getting Tess serially published "profoundly
shaped the novel we read today, producing alterations in
structure, plot, and characterization which undermined
[Hardy's] fictional argument as well as strengthening it"
(31). Jacobus argues that the original work, intended as "a
lament for unfulfilled love, a tragedy of thwarted potential,
focusing on the heroine's appropriation by the wrong man at
the wrong time" (321) underwent a "sustained campaign of
rehabilitation" which made Tess "so blatant a case of the
double standard of sexual morality applied to men and women,
and Tess herself so blameless, that the tragedy of the

105
ordinary becomes the tragedy of the exceptional—blackening
both man and fate in the process" (323). Hardy's campaign to
"purify" Tess falls sguarely within the Victorian project of
domesticating working-class women. A necessary conseguence of
this domesticating project, which involves erasing women's
sexual desire, is what Jacobus refers to as "character
assassination." Hardy's rewriting of Alec and Angel was both
dictated by the cultural move to domesticate working-class
women and reveals the conseguences of it. Penny Boumelha
argues that "the 'argument' that seeks, contradictorily, both
to exonerate Tess and to secure forgiveness for her is partly
an attempt to rescue her for a contentially-realized purity;
as Jacobus has remarked, "Tess's purity ... is 'stuck on' in
retrospect like the sub-title, to meet objections which the
novel had encountered even before its publication" (128).
Significantly, "purifying" Tess entails making her a passive
victim of Alec's and Angel's sexual desire. To insist on Tess
as "a pure woman," regarding her "as somehow immune to the
experiences she undergoes," is to "deny her the right of
participation in her own life. Robbed of responsibility, she
is deprived of tragic status—reduced throughout to the victim
she does indeed become" (319-20). Hardy's plot, reworked to
meet the demands of the Victorian domestic woman ideology,
clearly shows the consequences of the campaign to purify
women: they are stripped of the agency with which to determine

106
the course of their lives, but still constructed as the agents
of men's ruin.
Margaret R. Higonnet notes that, while Hardy does not
allow Tess to remain totally passive, her "individual words
are reductively interpreted through men's codes about women"
(201). While we must credit Hardy's efforts to address the
punitive consequences of a sexual double standard, Higonnet
reminds us that "the autonomous selfhood and therefore voice
of a literary character are always no more than useful
fictions within the fiction" (198). She argues that Hardy
uses a reflexively ironic narrator to grapple with the problem
of a man telling a woman's story (199). Ironically, this very
narrative commitment to Tess's story problematizes much of the
representation. In one respect, then, Hardy's "passionate
commitment to exhibiting Tess as the subject of her own
experience evokes an unusually overt maleness in the narrative
voice." Her suffering, focalized through the (male)
narrator's gaze, raises uncomfortable questions about
voyeurism. As Higonnet argues:
The narrator's erotic fantasies of penetration and
engulfment enact a pursuit, violation, and
persecution of Tess in parallel with those she
suffers at the hands of her two lovers. Time and
again, the narrator seeks to enter Tess, through
her eyes— ... through her mouth— ... and through
her flesh... . The phallic imagery of pricking,
piercing and penetration which has repeatedly been
noted, serves not only to create an image-chain
linking Tess's experiences from the death of
Prince to her final penetrative act of retaliation,
but also to satisfy the narrator's fascination with
the interiority of her sexuality, and his desire to
take possession of her. Similarly, the repeated

107
evocations of a recumbent or somnolent Tess
awakening to violence, and the continual
interweaving of red and white, blood and flesh, sex
and death, provide structuring images for the
violence Tess suffers, but also repeat that
violence. (120-21)
On the one hand, then, Hardy valiantly attempts to render
sympathetically the injustice and suffering that are so
integral a part of many working-class women's lives. But this
attempt is undermined in part by the very ’realism' for which
his representation has frequently been praised. Mitchell
argues that Hardy's "world seems real, is recognizable, partly
because it parallels the patriarchal world we know, especially
in its tacit assumptions about gender. In particular, the
narrator and implied reader of Hardy's texts share a gaze that
is ineluctably male" (157).40 As Boumelha notes, "the
40Mitchell' s The Stone and The Scorpion: The Female
Subject of Desire in the Novels of Charlotte Bronte, George
Eliot, and Thomas Hardy offers a radical critique of Hardy's
work. Making short shrift of critical attempts to negotiate
a discomfort she identifies with a feminist reading of Hardy,
she argues that "the narrator and the implied reader in all of
Hardy's novels are invariably male, and sexist as well" (156).
She goes so far as to say that "the pitying, protective
narrator, in fact, so personally involved in his own creation,
constitutes the voyeuristic consciousness in Tess" (193).
Mitchell argues that "the entire text consists, on a deep
level, of an act of objectification and violence toward its
heroine ... Her 'guilt' (her irresistible sexuality) is
established at the outset, and her punishment (her suffering
and death) is reluctantly but pleasurably overseen by the wise
and yearning narrator" (193). While I agree in many respects
with Mitchell's argument, I do not think an aesthetic pleasure
in the fallen woman's suffering is exclusively linked to a
male gaze. As my readings of George Eliot and Elizabeth
Gaskell demonstrate, the trope of the victimized woman is part
of the desire to punish class transgression (a phenomenon in
which middle-class women certainly participated) and evokes
the erotics of punishment.

108
narrator's analytic omniscience is threatened both by his
erotic commitment to Tess, and by the elusiveness of her
sexuality" (128). Ultimately, "Hardy's effort to wrestle with
the codes of masculinity and femininity ironically traps him
in their repetition" (Higonnet 212).
Written specifically to satisfy the demands of a late
Victorian audience already indoctrinated into the ideology of
domesticity which writes out woman's sexual body, Tess shows
us that this ideology's subtext never really allows woman to
be anything but her body. Higonnet notes that Hardy's
"language of incarnation is destabilised by the physicality
and interiority of the 'woman's soul'" (121). Even the
discourse which attempts to elevate woman's soul above her
body ultimately collapses under the seemingly insurmountable
obstacle of the (male) desire woman arouses. "If Tess can be
said to have a tragic 'flaw', it is her sexuality, which is,
in this novel, her 'nature' as a woman. Her sexuality is
above all provocative: she is a temptress to the convert Alec,
an Eve to Angel Clare" (Boumelha 123-4). Thus we see that
narratives of purity cannot be purged of narratives of the
woman's threatening sexual body. Tess's speech is assimilated
"to her body and to nature" (Higonnet 204).41 In fact, "Tess
41Boumelha notes that Tess's "consciousness is all but
edited out" of Hardy's novel, "particularly at moments of such
erotic response." Significantly, "Tess is asleep, or in
reverie, at almost every crucial turn of the plot: at Princes'
death, at the time of her seduction by Alec, when the sleep¬
walking Angel buries his image of her, at his return to find
her at the Herons, and when the police take her at Stonehenge.

109
is most herself—and thus, most woman—at points where she is
dumb and semi-conscious"—when she is, within the spirit/body
bifurcation of the novel, most body and least "soul." "The
tragedy of Tess Durbeyfield, like that in The Return of the
Native, turns upon an ideological basis, projecting a polarity
of sex and intellect, body and mind, upon an equally fixed
polarity of gender. In this schema, sex and nature are
assigned to the female, intellect and culture to the male"
(Boumelha 121-22). Not only does woman's threatening sexual
body underwrite discourses of domesticity, it provides a
justification for the erotics of punishment fueling Victorian
narratives of the victimized fallen woman. Narratives in
which "fallen women" suffer beautifully aestheticize (and
anaesthetize) women's suffering:
In a physical sense, then, Tess is vividly and
immediately present, to an extent that tends to
obfuscate the fact that a key constituent of her
subjectivity—what several critics have called her
"interiority"—is missing ... At the heart of his
novel so obviously "about" a woman, there is a
blank space, an absent heroine. Its sense of felt
life, so present and palpable, derives from the
highly implicated narrator and his vividly realized
erotic vision. Tess's "interior"—her
consciousness, in other words—is deftly elided in
a series of unobtrusive omissions. Most obviously,
we are never told what she is thinking or feeling,
even at key points in the novel (the seduction, the
moment she discovers she is pregnant, the baby's
birth, her execution). (Mitchell 190)
Important moments of speech are absent, too—her wedding-night
account of her past life for example, or the 'merciless
polemical syllogism,' learnt from Angel, with which she
transforms Alec from evangelical preacher to sexual suitor
once more" (121-22).

110
For example, just before Alec finally consummates his desire
for Tess, he returns from surveying the countryside for
landmarks ands finds her "sleeping soundly, and upon her
eyelashes there lingered tears" (71). Tess's tears are as
beautiful as they are painful. Her aestheticized physical
body is overwhelmingly present and any representation of the
experience of her pain noticeably absent. The degree to which
she is conflated with the physical (and, by association in a
bifurcated flesh/spirit world, the animal) is suggested in the
syntactic confusion over Tess and Alec's horse:
[Alec] had, in fact, ridden quite at random for
over an hour, taking any turning that came to hand
in order to prolong companionship with her, and
giving far more attention to Tess's moonlit person
than to any wayside object. A little rest for the
jaded animal being desirable, he did not hasten his
search for landmarks. (70)
We understand that "jaded animal" alludes to Alec's horse, who
we know from an earlier reference to be tired. But
syntactically, the referent is to Tess. That both Tess and
Alec's horse are tired, that he muses about both as he wanders
on his pleasurable moonlit journey, and that, finally, the
need for both of them to rest provides the opportunity for
Alec to rape Tess, suggests a too-easy movement between the
horse's animal body and Tess' sexual body. What's more, at
the moment of rape Tess is, as many critics have noted,
asleep—dumb, unconscious, outside of language. The rape is
represented in abstractions from the male narrator's point of
view: "Why is it that upon this beautiful feminine tissue,

Ill
sensitive as gossamer, and practically blank as snow as yet,
there should have been traced such a coarse pattern as it was
doomed to receive?" (71). Furthermore, the narrative indulges
in the fatalistic speculation that similar crimes committed by
ancient d'Urbervilles are being reenacted with Tess. The
narrator seemingly aligns himself with Tess when he writes:
"Though to visit the sins of the fathers upon the children may
be a morality good enough for divinities, it is scorned by
average human nature; and it therefore does not mend the
matter" (71). But, as Higonnet argues, "giving voice to the
historian is one of the functions that splits the narrative
voice asunder" (202). The pervasive references to the legend
of the "coach and four," (a legend of a past d'Urberville's
heinous crime), the constant association of woman with pagan
superstition, impart an attitude which is "suggestively
ambiguous, even split." "By introducing the superstitious
sign qua sign and by shaping the turn of events, the narrator
lends credence to the superstition" and "invites us to read
through the code of superstition" (Higonnet 204).
We see a similar conflation in the scene describing Tess
sheathing corn. This scene, focalized from the narrator's
point of view, presents woman's body as part of the field.
The narrator says that women are the "most interesting" field
laborers:
By reason of the charm which is acquired by a woman
when she becomes part and parcel of outdoor nature,
and is not merely an object set down therein as at
ordinary times. A field-man is a personality

112
afield; a field-woman is a portion of the field;
she has somehow lost her own margin, imbibed the
essence of her surrounding, and assimilated herself
with it. (86)
The text presents us with the troubling observation that the
laboring woman "seduces casual attention" (86). The
implication is that, by virtue of her visible physical body,
she makes men "look" at her. More troubling still, she loses
her boundaries, becomes "part and parcel of outdoor nature."
Thus suggests that, like the field, she is passively
penetrable. Hardy describes the "penetration" of the field,
which "had already been 'opened'; that is to say, a lane a few
feet wide had been hand-cut through the wheat along the whole
circumference of the field, for the first passage of the
horses and machine" (85). "Opened," ready to "plow," the
"field" is about to be transversed, penetrated, entered,
written, by both horse and machine, old and new. We do not
have to stretch Hardy's narrative far to read fantasies of
woman's penetrable body in the fantasy of the "field-woman"
who "has somehow lost her own margin" and "assimilated
herself" with the field. But the sadistic quality of this
conflation between woman/animal/earth is perhaps most clear in
the scene describing Tess sheathing corn:
Her binding proceeds with clock-like monotony.
From the sheaf last finished she draws a handful of
ears, patting their tips with her left palm to
bring them even. Then stooping low she moves
forward, gathering the corn with both hands against
her knees, and pushing her left gloved hand under
the bundle to meet the right on the other side,
holding the corn in an embrace like that of a
lover. She brings the ends of the bond together,

113
and kneels on the sheaf while she ties it, beating
back her skirts now and then lifted by the breeze.
A bit of her naked arm is visible between the buff
leather of the gauntlet and the sleeve of her gown;
and as the day wears on its feminine smoothness
becomes scarified by the stubble, and bleeds. (86-
V)
This erotic scene—in which Tess "pats" the "tips" of the
corn, "embraces" the sheaths like a "lover," beats back her
lifted skirts—ends with her "naked arm" between the "buff
leather of the gauntlet and the sleeve of her gown . . .
"scarified" and "bleed[ing]."
This erotic representation of a painful physical labor is
uncomfortably close to an almost sadistic pleasure in sexual
conquest. The detail given to her skin, dress, posture, and
movement, and the close association of these with sexual
activity, press upon us an awareness of the narrator’s
voyeuristic arousal by the events he narrates. But this
fascination with Tess's sexuality also evokes a horror. This
horror is indicated in the scene in which Tess stumbles upon
Angel playing the harp. Again, the language of the scene is
highly erotic. The music that draws Tess has "a stark quality
like that of nudity" (121). Walking towards the notes, Tess
finds herself in an uncultivated garden:
Damp and rank with juicy grass which sent up mists
of pollen at a touch; and with tall blooming weeds
emitting offensive smells—weeds whose red and
yellow and purple hues formed a polychrome as
dazzling as that of cultivated flowers. She went
stealthily as a cat through the profusion of
growth, gathering cuckoo-spittle on her skirts,
cracking snails that were underfoot, staining her
hands with thistle-milk and slug-slime, and rubbing
off upon her naked arms sticky blights which,

114
though snow-white on the apple-tree trunks, made
madder stains on her skin; thus she drew quite near
to Clare, still unobserved of him. (121)
The eroticism of this passage is offset by a language of
repulsiveness. The overgrown garden weeds emit "an offensive
smell." And, while the noxious weeds look like "cultivated
flowers," they are not. This suggests that appearances may be
deceiving. What one thinks is a prize flower may turn out to
be only a common weed, but an uncontainable and threateningly
overgrowing one. Like the fears of being unable to
differentiate "fallen" from "pure" women, and the corollary
fears of sexual contagion, this passage evokes a horror of
sexual contamination. Making her way through the garden to
Alec, Tess "gathers," "stains," and "rubs" herself with
"cuckoo spittle," "slug-slime," and "blights." In a novel
marked by Tess's sexual passivity, this passage is striking
for its suggestion of her as actively contaminating. The
language of this passage makes Tess the agent of her own
pollution. Further, "cuckoo-spittle" evokes images of
cuckoldry, of Tess as a fallen women, adulterous, unfaithful.
It is this overgrown damp rankness of vegetable ferment
through which Tess makes her way and to which she becomes
virtually assimilated before she reaches Angel.
Like Adam and Eve (128), Angel and Tess writhe
"feverishly under the oppressiveness of an emotion thrust on
them by cruel Nature's law" (144). While Tess is presented as
part of the field, assimilated to the sexual and dangerously

115
staining garden, Angel is presented as "more spiritual than
animal; he had himself well in hand, and was singularly free
from grossness" (189). His love was "ethereal to a fault,
imaginative to impractability" (240). He has "the will to
subdue the grosser to the subtler emotion, the substance to
the conception, the flesh to the spirit" (241). Though Angel
does resist his desire for Tess, ultimately he succumbs to the
"force of nature." Regardless of whether or not Tess is
conscious of her sexual "power," she does elicit desire. The
desire she elicits is presented as dangerous, something which
has the potential to ruin both Angel and Alec. This danger is
suggested in a curious passage describing woman's "soul" as
incarnate in her sexual flesh. Angel finds Tess on that
border between sleep and waking:
Yawning, and he saw the red interior of her mouth
as if it had been a snake's. She had stretched one
arm so high above her coiled-up cable of hair that
he could see its satin delicacy above the sunburn;
her face was flushed with sleep, and her eyelids
hung heavy over their pupils. The brim-fullness of
her nature breathed from her. It was a moment when
a woman's soul is more incarnate than at any other
time; when the most spiritual beauty bespeaks
itself flesh; and sex takes the outside place in
the presentation. (166)
This passage collapses Tess's spirituality into her sexuality
(a collapse impossible to imagine for either Angel or Alec).
She is perilously close to the Lamia, the snake-woman who
appears in the guise of innocent maidenhood and seduces and
then devours men.

116
To a certain extent, then, the narrative eroticizes the
suffering of the fallen woman and evokes the fear of sexual
contamination and engulfment. It is precisely the moments at
which the narrative seems most sympathetic to Tess that it is
most voyeuristically aroused. Mitchell argues that "on the
surface, one obvious function Tess's suffering serves is
purely aesthetic: she suffers beautifully, nobly, and in great
detail recounted by the observing, sorrowing narrator" (194).
At the center of the novel is an:
Absent subject, and the desire the book exudes is
not Tess's's but the (male) narrator's ... What
makes Tess so erotic is in fact its complex
conformity to the domination/submission fantasy ...
a conformity that shares to an uncomfortable degree
the pathological appeal of much male pornography.
The look, the language and the enactment of desire
in the tale of Hardy's milkmaid, despite its
compelling heroine, ultimately do not belong to
her. (188)
Just as Tess is a palpably present external body lacking
interiority or self-reflexivity, so too her access to language
(and the subject position of the performative utterance) is
subsumed to the dominating figures in her life. Both Alec's
and Angel's "oral arts" are set against Tess's silence in a
sort of "communion between the two men over Tess's body that
suggests the type of homosocial relationship Eve Sedgewick has
analyzed" (Mitchell 210). In this construction, woman is the
sexual body, absolutely denied access to the word. As Julia
Kristeva in Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection explains
it, "a (social) symbolic system corresponds to a specific
structuration of the speaking subject in the symbolic order."

117
The symbolic order implies "the dependence and articulation of
the speaking subject in the order of language" (67). In
Victorian
narratives
of
the fall,
woman is body,
without
access to
the word
and
therefore
without access
to the
symbolic order. What is more, she is filthy, defiling, and
"defilement is what is jettisoned from the symbolic system"
(65). Access to the word and hence to the symbolic order is
requisite to truth-value and legal right. In Bourdieu's
terms, the performative utterance involves the power of the
word, and, as pure body, pure sex, the seduced maiden
completely lacks the power of the performative utterance. She
is presented as written by Angel and Alec: Alec has written
Tess's body with his; Angel scripts Tess's words, which are
never her own but only a mimicking of his. As Alec tells her:
"The fact is, whatever your dear husband believed you accept,
and whatever he rejected you reject, without the least inquiry
or reasoning on your own part. That's just like you women.
Your mind is enslaved to his" (315).
We see the extent to which Tess is denied access to the
word in Angel's refusal to hear her confession.42 Her word,
4 One might argue that, first writing and then speaking
her past, Tess gains access to the word. She does, after all,
finally tell her story. But Tess's confession is modeled "on
the renunciation of one's own will and of one's own self"
(Foucault Technologies 48). Through her confession, Tess
becomes the penitent enacting an "exomologesis, or a dramatic
expression" of the sinner. "In exomologesis, the sinner had
to 'kill' himself through ascetic macerations. Whether
through martyrdom or through obedience to a master, disclosure
of self is the renunciation of one's own self" (48). Tess's

118
even when written, is invisible. The confession letter she
slips under Angel's door disappears under the carpet, unread.
The narrative does present Angel's inability to conceive of
Tess as having a "story" of her "past" as his shortcoming. It
also condemns the sexual double standard which makes him
unable to accept Tess's past once she reveals it.
Nevertheless, the narrative remains within the structure in
which the only "story" a woman with a "past" can tell is the
story of her sexual guilt. If she has no story, she has no
access to the word. If she has a past, a story, she must be
fallen, and the only mode in which that story may be narrated
is the confessional. To confess means both to acknowledge the
sin of her fall and to accept her penance. The only word
woman can speak, then, is the word that authorizes her
punishment for sexual transgression.
The Victorian genre of the confession and the erotics of
punishment it evokes are central organizing structures in
Tess. Kalikoff argues that "the sexual confession drives the
novel's classical cycle of retribution and transcendence"
("Sexual Confessions" 107). While Kalikoff articulates the
role of the confessional in Victorian social discourse and
describes it as "an emotional strip-tease that indicts the
voyeurs" (101), she exempts Hardy from the role of voyeur and
sees him instead as indicting "religious and legal
confession, then, fully jettisons her from the symbolic order.

119
institutions by revealing their inhumane complicity in Tess's
destruction" (109-10). While Hardy certainly intended to
indict these institutions, and while he successfully does so
in many ways, the text ultimately participates in the same
voyeuristic strip-tease Kalikoff identifies and Hardy intends
to critique. It is not just that, in order to maintain her
tragic heroine status, Tess must suffer—all tragic
heroes/heroines suffer. Hardy's complicity in sexual
voyeurism lies partly in the fact that, had Tess at any moment
been represented as choosing Alec, as choosing comfort and
ease over her suffering penitence, she would no longer be the
tragic heroine. It is precisely because she is the
continually exploited, the sexually abused, the victim, that
Angel can return for her.
Despite Tess's suffering, Kalikoff attempts to secure for
Tess the status of tragic heroine. She argues that Tess
"rejects man-made laws in favor of her own inner laws. In the
course of her journey, she reshapes her understanding of
spiritual law as her experience and intuition dictate. She
denies the patriarchal authority of church as well as state"
("Sexual Confession" 108). This is partially true of Tess in
relation to her child, Sorrow (she angrily rejects the
minister's refusal to baptize him and performs this ceremony
herself). But Tess's ritual baptism and burial nevertheless
remain outside of the symbolic order. Her actions are not
consistent enough to be seen as an alternative to the order

120
she rejects. And, in fact, her acceptance of herself as more
truly Alec's wife than Angel's ultimately leaves her within
the patriarchal authority of church and state. But, more
tellingly, Tess's murder of Alec, far from being the
"enactment of her own justice" (Kalikoff "Sexual Confession"
110), is her final submission to the patriarchal code that
demands the sacrifice of the fallen woman. The moment of
apotheosis in which Tess achieves her final blissful union
with Angel cannot be complete while Alec is still alive. Tess
kills Alec, a murder that was set in motion when Angel, before
leaving for South America, said, "How can we live together
while that man lives?—he being your husband in Nature, and
not I. If he were dead it might be different..." (239).
Angel wishes Alec dead, which is also wishing his other half,
the struggle of his flesh, dead. When Angel finds Tess, she
kills Alec, acting out Angel's desire and literally giving her
life for him. Tess tells Angel:
It came to me as a shining light that I should get
you back that way. I could not bear the loss of
you any longer—you don't know how entirely I was
unable to bear your not loving me! Say you do now,
dear, dear husband; say you do, now I have killed
him. (377)
Peculiarly, Angel tells Tess: "I do love you, Tess—O, I do—
it is all come back!" (377). If Angel's love has just "come
back," what brought it back to him? Certainly, Angel's return
from South America was motivated by his understanding that, in
rejecting Tess for adultery, he was being hypocritical. But
it is not until Tess has killed Alec that "tenderness was

121
absolutely dominant in Clare at last. He kissed her endlessly
with his white lips, and held her hand, and said—'I will not
desert you! I will protect you by every means in my power,
dearest love, whatever you may have done or not have done!'"
(378). But Alec's death is a suicide-murder. Tess knowingly
accepts the death sentence killing Alec entails. She is, of
course, apprehended and hung for the crime of murdering Alec.
She tells Angel: "I do not wish to outlive your present
feeling for me. I would rather not. I would rather be dead
and buried when the time comes for you to despise me" (382).
The narrative presents Tess's and Angel's reunion and her
suicide-murder as Tess's fulfillment, but it seems more
clearly to represent the sadistic porno-fantasy fulfillment in
which Tess is the happy-slave-to-Angel before she sacrifices
herself to him. In the closing scenes, Tess places herself on
the sacrificial altar and asks Angel to marry Liza-Lu. With
Angel and Liza-Lu. watching, Tess is hung. Liza-Lu, "the
spiritualized image of Tess," is the woman stripped of
sexuality (389). The project of domesticating working-class
women requires that, as with their middle-class counterparts,
their sexuality be rewritten as maternal devotion devoid of
passion or desire. This rewriting elevates the spirit over
the flesh, the angel over the whore, and converts the sexually
dangerous woman into the maternal domestic woman who labors in
the service of the modern family and state. The domestication

122
of working-class women thus requires the death of the sexual
woman, a murder which is eroticized and aestheticized.
Sex and the Modern Family
The revisions Hardy made in order to publish Tess
clearly position his heroine as a working-class woman trying
to live out the ideology of middle-class domesticity. Tess
has completed a sixth standard education at the village
school, where "she had held a leading place at the time of her
leaving" (31). While the narrative presents this fact with
some irony, it is nevertheless clear that this education is
part of the divide between Tess and her mother. Joan is from
an older time, a Jacobean leftover out of place in the modern
era:
Between the mother, with her fast-perishing lumber
of superstitions, folk-lore, dialect, and orally
transmitted ballads, and the daughter, with her
trained National teachings and Standard knowledge
under an infinitely revised Code, there was a gap
of two hundred years as ordinarily understood.
When they were together the Jacobean and the
Victorian ages were juxtaposed. (17)
Tess's susceptibility to seduction is blamed in large part on
Joan's failure to prepare her for her place as "proper" wife
and mother. Alec remarks that "it is a shame for parents to
bring up their girls in such dangerous ignorance of the gins
and nets that the wicked may set for them, whether their
motive be a good one or the result of simple indifference"
(309). Her father drinks and does not provide for the
household. Her mother (who also drinks) does not school Tess

123
in the norms of middle-class marriage and domestic economy.
Of course Joan, the Jacobean holdover, does not share the new
age's paradigm of the domestic woman and thus cannot impart
this paradigm to Tess. Joan is, according to nineteenth-
century definitions, an inadequate mother. The family is
poor, she does not sufficiently direct or control her drunkard
husband,
the laundry
is never
done, and
she
leaves
the
children
in order to
find her
husband.
In
short,
the
Durbeyfields are the culpable poor:
If the heads of the Durbeyfield house-hold chose to
sail into difficulty, disaster, starvation,
disease, degradation, death, thither were these
half-dozen little captives under hatches compelled
to sail with them—six helpless creatures, who had
never been asked if they wished for life on any
terms, much less if they wished for it on such hard
conditions as were involved in being of the
shiftless house of Durbeyfield. (18)
Joan falls far short of the domestic model of maternal
love and supervision. But even without a good mother to
educate her about and equip her to deal with the dilemmas
that face her in the modern world, Tess nevertheless has a
knowledge of the new paradigm for womanhood in the Victorian
age (she has, after all, been schooled). She has internalized
the new age's paradigm of the domestic woman, a paradigm
linking "good" women to state-sanctioned marriage,
"legitimate" motherhood and efficient and economic regulation
of the household. Tess "felt quite a Malthusian towards her
mother for thoughtlessly giving her so many little sisters and
brothers" (31). Next to Tess's attempts to regulate her

124
sexual (re)production, Joan is unregulated reproduction, the
endlessly reproducing sexual body. It is Tess who, with her
"deputy maternal attitude," bears the burden of domesticity.
Tess finishes the wash, cares for the children, figures out
how to provide money for the family. Joan's failure as a
mother marks the shift from a rural/agrarian working-class
family structure to an urban industrial one.
Hardy's moralizing narrative makes Joan and the
Durbeyfield family responsible for their living. They are not
sufficiently industrious, and industry, in the industrial
city, is the new religion. Completely devoid of a modern work
ethic, Joan, who consults the Fortune Teller and waits for
providence to provide for her, sees life as a series of chance
occurrences which "come upon them irrespective of desert or
folly" (253). While Tess believes that she must work for the
bare necessities of a life that is both constructed by and
constrained to her labor, Joan imagines Providence providing
luxuries and social status irrespective of her labor or her
station. In Joan's mind, it is perfectly plausible that Tess
will marry up, that her sojourn at what she believes to be
their related d'Urbervilles will culminate in a good match for
Tess. While Joan can find this a perfectly plausible
scenario, Tess cannot. Even as Joan is plotting marriage
scenarios for Tess, Tess tells Joan "don't go thinking about
[Mrs. d'Urberville] making a match for me—it is silly" (30).
What's more, Joan sees no real problem with Tess's pregnancy.

125
It is quite plausible to Joan that Alec will marry Tess when
he learns that she is pregnant. Discussing with her husband
the possible dangers of Tess's removal to Trantridge, Joan
says:
'Well, 'tis a chance for the maid— Still, if
'twere the doing again, I wouldn't let her go till
I had found out whether the gentleman is really a
good-hearted young man and choice over her as his
kinswoman.'
'Yes, you ought, perhaps, to ha' done that,'
snored Sir John.
Joan Durbeyfield always managed to find
consolation somewhere: 'Well, as one of the genuine
stock, she ought to make her way with 'em, if she
plays her trump card aright. And if he don't marry
her afore he will after. For that he's all afire
wi' love for her any eye can see.'
'What's her trump card? Her d'Urberville blood, you
mean?'
'No, stupid; her face—as 'twas mine.' (47)
In Joan's paradigm, marrying up in class, premarital sex, and
pregnancy before marriage are facts of life that, far from
marking a woman's ruin, might even work strategically to
secure her a desirable match. And seduction is an appropriate
strategy for securing a good marriage. But Tess is of the
Victorian, not the Jacobean, age. In the Victorian age,
cross-class marriages, pre-marital sex and pregnancy mark a
woman as fallen. And the fallen woman must, of course,
suffer.
There are several ways in which Tess performs the
ideological work of inculcation in which fallenness becomes a
trope with which to police working-class family structures.
In the first place, unlike her mother, Tess cannot easily

126
imagine for herself a cross-class marriage.^3 As Langland
argues, "the story of the heroine who secures her master's
hand in marriage, in fact, disappears from the novel ... the
classes do not intermarry in nineteenth-century fiction" (1).
While Joan laments that, after discovering her pregnancy, Tess
did not secure Alec in marriage, Tess believes that, whether
or not she was pregnant, Alec would not have married her:
"Get Alec d'Urberville in the mind to marry her! He marry
herl On matrimony he had never once said a word. And what if
he had? How a convulsive snatching at social salvation might
have impelled her to answer him she could not say" (80). Tess
is a tragic heroine in part because she does not use her
ability to elicit Alec's desire or her pregnancy to entrap him
into marriage. She is a good woman because she refuses to
consider marriage as a means of upward social mobility and
privileges "love," the basis of companionate marriage. To the
middle class, working-class women's desire for middle-class
status is threatening. To the extent that Tess readily
43Though Angel's arguments eventually persuade Tess to
marry him, despite their class difference, this marriage does
in fact fail. The failure is in large part due to the
differences between working- and middle-class sexual mores.
Indeed, the narrator describes Angel's surprise at the
"unreserved comradeship out of doors" during their betrothal,
which, though it seemed "normal" to the dairy-hands, seemed
"oddly anticipative" to him (190). Similarly, after Angel
rejects her because of her affair with Alec, Tess argues that
other husbands have gotten over such things. Angel responds:
"Different societies, different manners. You almost make me
say you are an unapprehending peasant woman, who have never
been initiated into the proportions of social things. You
don't know what you say" (228).

127
accepts her working-class status and does not desire upward
social mobility, the narrative constructs her sympathetically.
Tess's plight is tragic, not criminal, precisely because she
expresses no desire to convulsively "snatch" at "social
salvation." By presenting a heroine reconciled to a working-
class identity, Hardy's text participates in disseminating the
ideology of working-class domesticity.44 The text acknowledges
the novel's role in disseminating such cultural "information."
In response to Joan's accusation that she "ought to have been
more careful" if she "didn't mean to get [Alec] to make [her]
his wife," an agonized Tess responds:
0 mother, my mother! ... How could I be expected to
know? I was a child when I left this house four
months ago. Why didn't you tell me there was
danger in men-folk? Why didn't you warn me?
Ladies know what to fend hands against, because
they read novels that tell them of these tricks;
but I never had the chance o' learning in that way,
and you did not help me! (80)
Novels, then, "teach" women "what to fend hands against." The
narrative repetition of the fallen woman's suffering is in
fact both a definition of the fall (what constitutes the
fall? Who will suffer?) and a discursive punishment of
44At one level, Tess's desire for and marriage to Angel
problematize the argument that Tess is reconciled to a
working-class identity. But the narrative representation of
the marriage's failure and the suffering it entails makes a
stronger case against cross-class marriages than the
representation of the marriage can make for them. These
boundaries again seem to be troubled by the Angel/Liza-Lu
relationship. But Liza-Lu's primary function is to signify
the erasure of working-class women's sexuality. In this
sense, she, too, is part of the work of domesticating working-
class women.

128
fallenness. The narrative certainly does pity the victim it
constructs, but this pity is contingent upon the victim
passively accepting, even embracing, her suffering. The
narrative does not pity Joan, who does desire upward mobility
and for whom sex can be a tactic in acquiring this.
Tess also relies upon the domestic ideal of romantic love
to restructure working-class families according to the middle-
class paradigm. The "romance plot ... firmly grounded within
a patriarchal tradition," "[mystifies] class relations and
class management" (Langland 22). The romance plot
disseminated the myth that "despite the vast inequities of the
age virtually anyone could find gratification within this
private framework" (Armstrong 48). Part of the
"gratification" the home offers is family. The nursing mother
was an icon of the domestic woman ideology. The fallen woman,
however—the woman whose sexuality transgresses the boundaries
of legitimate marriage and domestic home—cannot be a good
mother. As Ruth Perry describes it in "Colonizing the
Breast," "admiration for mother—and for maternal devotion—
came to be a banner under which the newly constituted middle-
class marched" (117). Within this discourse, "motherhood
sanctified women and removed from them the taint of sexuality"
(118). But illegitimate children are, within this discursive
production, the badge of sexuality, not of sanctified
motherhood. Tess's child marks her as a fallen woman and,
within the Victorian ideology of domesticity, a failed mother.

129
One of the tragic aspects of this novel is Tess's attempt to
be the "good" domestic mother in spite of the conditions which
doom her attempt to failure. Unlike Ruth, she has no one to
"teach" her how to be a mother or to support her in her
efforts. But, unlike Hetty, she tries to care for her child.
As the passage depicting Tess's attempt to nurture her child
while working in the fields shows, "mothering" according to
middle-class standards is a learned skill:
When the infant had taken its fill the young mother
sat it upright in her lap, and looking into the far
distance dandled it with a gloomy indifference that
was almost dislike; then all of a sudden she fell
to violently kissing it some dozens of times, as if
she could never leave off, the child crying at the
vehemence of an onset which strangely combined
passionateness with contempt. (88)45
Here we see that Tess cannot achieve a proper balance with her
child. She moves between "gloomy indifference," "violent
kissing," "passionateness" and "contempt." Despite her best
4~Higonnet argues that Tess's "preverbal communication
with the preverbal Sorrow links the woman's sexual and
linguistic roles in a guite traditional way. More
interestingly, it also mirrors the mixture of sexual passion
and contempt that disfigured her relationship to Alec.
Furthermore, Tess's violence here evokes a particular form of
'maternal anger' not often recognized in literature written by
men. Hers is certainly the anger of the repressed voice, but
it is also the anger of the exploited body, of a maternity
whose pleasures have been fatally contaminated by rape" (206).
I am interested in Higonnet's discussion of maternal anger.
While Higonnet sees one aspect of this anger as "maternal
pleasures" "contaminated by rape," I guestion the class-bias
of reading maternity as "pleasurable." In fact, Tess's body
is "exploited" as much by the labor demands of working-class
motherhood as by Alec raping her. As chapter Five shows,
middle-class ideals of family and motherhood were markedly
different than working-class reality. Higonnet seems to
accept a bourgeois ideology of maternity that I want to
critique.

130
efforts, she cannot regulate her emotion, her desire, or her
actions. By implication, then, she cannot regulate her own
(and thus her mate's) sexuality. The regulation of sexuality
is one of the domestic woman's primary duties. The pathos of
Tess's failure to perform this duty is highlighted by her
desire to do so. She accepts the ideology of domesticity, but
it is impossible for her to meet its demands:
Increasingly constructed as the higher good for
which a woman must be prepared to sacrifice her
sexual vanity, motherhood began to carry with it
the suggestion of punitive consequences for sexual
activity. If fictional women characters of the
previous era had mated and bred casually—like Moll
Flanders—maternity was now becoming a serious duty
and responsibility. (Perry 118)
The discourse of motherhood, the foundation of companionate
marriage, helped to reappropriate "female subjectivity for the
sake of a new cultural discourse, which separated public from
private, political from personal, and market relations from
domestic relations" (Perry 119). Perry describes this
"psychological appropriation of women to serve the emotional
needs of men" as "a colonization far more thorough-going than
any that had preceded it" (118-19). In fact, "the medical
focus on maternal breast-feeding can be interpreted as the
beginning of the physiological colonization of women's bodies
corresponding to the psychological colonization of women's
subjectivity in both companionate marriage and motherhood"
(Perry 121).
The novel, by disseminating a discourse of purity,
maternity, and domesticity, played a crucial role in

131
domesticating working-class women. These fictional narratives
defined fallenness, warned against the suffering "falling"
entailed, and discursively punished fallen women. The primary
tenets for the domestic working-class woman clearly emerge in
the pages of popular fiction: do not transgress class
boundaries; and seek legitimate marriage to an industrious
worker of one's own class. This domesticating project was
vitally important to restructuring working-class family and
sexual relations for the economic requirements of the
industrial city. But, as we shall see in chapter Four, it was
as important to the preservation of middle-class domesticity
as it was to the construction of the new worker-state.

CHAPTER 4
THE "OTHER WOMAN'S" SHADOW:
DOUBLING FALLENNESS AS NARRATIVE FRAME
"Love of Finery" and the "Fall."
Popular discourses painted pictures of working-class
women whose love of finery made them susceptible to the
temptations of upper-class seducers. As I have already argued
with the case of Hetty Sorrel, this discourse implicitly links
a love of finery to a consciousness of beauty and a desire to
exercise the power to attract afforded by displaying one's
beauty. This discourse sexualizes the desire to dress above
one's station, marking working-class women who indulged in
ostentatious displays of dress as seductresses .‘5b Sexualizing
4bAs Mariana Valverde points out in "The Love of Finery:
Fashion and the Fallen Woman in Nineteenth-Century Social
Discourse," William Acton uses discourses of women's love of
finery to unite the paradoxical beliefs in women's asexual
natures with women's sale of their sexual services. According
to Acton:
Uncontrollable sexual desires of her own play but a
little part in inducing profligacy of the female
... If I seek to number the operative causes other
than passion of the women, I am met on the very
threshold of the task by vanity, vanity, and then
vanity—for what but this are love of dress and
admiration, and what sacrifices will not tens of
thousands of the uneducated make to gain these?
(gtd. Valverde 175).
This discourse does not, as Valverde points out, interrogate
"the system of meaning that linked women's desire for clothes
to vice, venereal disease, and urban decay."
132

133
the display of dress masks fears of class transgression by
constructing working-class women's desire for luxury as a
moral transgression. Paradoxically, popular medical
discourses disavowed women's sexual responsiveness. If women
were not supposed to experience sexual desire, then their
ability to elicit desire must be the ground upon which
working-class women's ostentatious display was sexualized.
Sexualizing working-class women's love of finery, then,
punishes working-class women for eliciting sexual desire from
men—specifically, for eliciting sexual desire from middle-
and upper-class men, for whom working-class women were
inappropriate objects of desire (or, at least, inappropriate
wives, a fact which made even casual relationships between the
classes anxiety producing). It is thus not simply that a love
of finery marks working-class women as susceptible to
temptation by middle and upper-class seducers; it is, more
importantly, that their display arouses desire and seduces men
for whom they should not be objects of desire.
Mariana Valverde points to the "simultaneous stability
and instability of dress as a social and moral signifier"
(172). The social semiotics of dress indicated not only
"degrees of virtue and vice, but also degrees of leisure and
labor" (183). Thus the anxiety fueling the love of finery
discourse was fueled by the anxiety of category. As
McClintock argues, "sumptuary panic (boundary panic over
clothing) erupts most intensely during periods of social

134
turbulence" (174). Significantly, the new consumerism of the
late Victorian market increasingly made categorization more
and more difficult. This consumerism was manifest in the
proliferation of both goods and of jobs. The new categories
of women's work (and the new categories of men's work and
avenues of wealth) in the industrial economy were difficult to
assimilate into old classifications of social position. It
was no longer clear if women shop owners were working or
middle class, if milliners' assistants were of the same class
as factory girls or domestic servants, or how the late-
Victorian rise of the secretary ranked next to the old
governesses. Additionally, the anonymity of single women in
an urban economy made it impossible to gauge a woman's
respectability through her extended familial relations.
Previously, a woman's relations had provided both supervision
and an indication of her community and social standing. The
relative anonymity of single women alone in an urban
industrial economy made it increasingly difficult to know if
women were working-class, upper working-class, lower middle-
class, pure or impure, virtuous or fallen. While it is true
that work itself marked a woman by her class, it is also true
that, within the working-classes, new levels of hierarchies
were being distinguished. The upper levels of the working-
classes (those who were prosperous enough to display the signs
of middle-class identity) were uncomfortably close to the
lower middle class. What's more, when women were not working

135
(when they were dressed for the theater or the music hall, for
shopping or leisure), their public dress did not necessarily
have to reflect their working identity. Thus, "while the
starving seamstresses of mid-Victorian literature had been
portrayed as objects of pity and charity, the maids, factory
women and new clerical workers of the later Victorian urban
world were commonly portrayed as sexual and moral dangers to
the city." At one level "all working women could be perceived
as threatening the moral order of the bourgeois city, if only
because of their immoral consumption" (Valverde 184). More
threatening still, they could appear to be something other
than what they were. Clothing was an increasingly less
reliable indicator of class position than it previously had
been:
Sumptuary laws contain an internal paradox, for the
fact that class and rank are made legible by the
wearing, or not wearing, of "cloth of gold, silk or
purple" reveals the invented nature of social
distinction, throwing into visibility the question
of both the origins and the legitimacy of rank and
power. The bits and pieces of colored cloth that
are the legible insignia of degree are also
permanently subject to disarrangement and symbolic
theft. For this reason, the historical figure of
the cross-dresser becomes invested with a potent
and subversive power. (McClintock 174)
Like Adam Bede, Mary Barton and David Copperfield are
examples of the ways in which sumptuary panic informs
discourses of fallenness and articulates the anxiety
underlying the legitimacy of rank and power and the fluidity
of category boundaries. In both novels, fallenness is
doubled. One fallen woman strategically frames the narrative

136
progress of another, acting as both a warning against and a
symbolic punishment for falling. The fallen woman is a threat
to both working and middle-class homes. By refusing
domestication, she destroys the working-class home: she
prevents husbands and sons from working and contaminates
daughters with the desire for clothing, comfort, and leisure
(the insignia of the middle class), hence ruining them as good
working-class domestic women. She destroys the middle-class
home by ensnaring husbands and sons, infecting them with lust
and venereal disease, and stealing men from middle-class
women. The domesticated working-class woman is thus crucial
both to the economic order of the industrial state and to the
cult of domesticity formed around middle-class households.
Her work allows, as McClintock argues, housework to be made
invisible and women's labor to be taken out of the rational
market—in fact, she allows the fiction of the leisured
domestic woman to exist.
Mary Barton
Like Adam Bede's, Mary Barton's narrative of seduction
relies heavily on the discourses of the love of finery. Just
before her fatal disappearance, Esther, the fallen woman par
excellence of the Victorian novel, was seen dressed "in her
Sunday gown, and with a new ribbon in her bonnet, and gloves
on her hands, like the lady she was so fond of thinking
herself" (5). She spent her money in dress, thinking to set

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off her pretty face; and got to come home so late at night,
that at last" John told her his mind: "Esther, I see what
you'll end at with your artificials, and your fly-away veils,
and stopping out when honest women are in their beds; you'll
be a street-walker, Esther, and then, don't you go to think
I'll have you darken my door" (6). Esther, then, is to blame
for her fall: her vanity, her desire to be a lady, and the
power she can exercise with her beauty mark her as the
seductress guilty of a class transgression resignified as
moral transgression and complicit in her own ruin. Mary, too,
is implicated as a seductress. She was proud "of having
attracted" Harry Carson," one so far above herself in station;
not insensible to the secret pleasure of knowing that he, whom
so many admired, had often said he would give anything for one
of her sweet smiles" (133). She "had begun to fix a stern
value to money as the 'Purchaser of Life'" (134). She had
"visions of the future, where yet her thoughts dwelt more on
the circumstances of ease, and the pomps and vanities awaiting
her, than on the lover with whom she was to share them" (133).
Thus, while Harry does try to "seduce" Mary, this
seduction is configured around Mary's desire for class status
and her ability to elicit desire. Harry can seduce Mary
because she is predisposed to seduction. He wants to seduce
Mary because she has elicited his desire, i.e., she has
solicited his seduction. He is constructed as "the tempter"
(271) who will pay "any price" to have her, though he of

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course would try to "obtain her as cheaply as he could" (157).
But it is Mary whose "loveliness, vanity, ambition, [and]
desire of being admired" expose her to the Harry's
temptations. While Harry "never undeceived" Mary of her
"ignorance to believe his intentions honorable" (157), he also
had "repeatedly before led her to infer that marriage was not
[his] object" (161). Mary, then, is as culpable in her own
potential fall as is her would-be seducer. She is, as Mrs.
Wilson calls her, a "bad hussy, with ... great blue eyes and
yellow hair, to lead men on to ruin" (266). She is "the
Delilah," a "vile flirting guean (sic)" (267).
As an explanatory narrative, the fall by the love of
finery marks the instability of class signifiers. The need to
mark the class boundary between Harry and Mary is all the more
pressing because of its tenuousness: Harry, like Alec, is
first generation middle-class, new money. Mary's relation to
Harry exposes the fragility of his middle-class identity.
Harry's mother was, after all, "a factory girl" (161). But,
as Harry explains to Sally Ledbetter, when Mr. and Mrs. Carson
married, his "father was in much such a station; at any rate,
there was not the disparity there is between Mary and me"
(161-2). The possibility that Mary may obtain the signifiers
of class (either falsely, masguerading, as does Esther, as
middle class, or legitimately, by marrying Harry) exposes the
means by which the middle class has appropriated privilege and
power. They, too, rose from the ranks, and their newly

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acquired class status and power still sits loosely upon them.
On what basis, then, are the Carsons really different from the
Bartons? Prohibitions against cross-class marriages
correspond to the possibility that the middle class may lose
its newly acquired class privilege: the middle class subjects
may fall—may lose money, power, middle-class identity. As
with all boundary constructions, the need to draw rigid class
boundary lines is as much about keeping the middle class in as
it is about keeping others out. "The function of all magical
boundaries ... [is] to stop those who are inside, on the right
side of the line, from leaving, demeaning or down-grading
themselves" (Bourdieu 122). Boundary issues for the Victorian
middle class were extremely crucial as they were
differentiating themselves both from the old aristocracy, with
whom they were engaged in a struggle over control of the
institutions of state and power, and from the new working
classes, with whom they were also engaged in a struggle over
the institutions of industry and capital and the conditions of
labor. The middle class "defined itself as different from the
aristocracy and the working classes, who spent, sexually and
economically, without moderation and who preferred not to
work" (McClintock 100).
Fallen women thus threaten the stability of class
boundaries. They threaten working-class homes with their
inability to raise children; those they do not kill will be
ruined for proper work. Their sons will be shiftless agents

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of moral disorder—thieves, rabble-rousers, chartists—and
their daughters will be seductresses, agents of physical and
moral contagion. Their husbands will be unemployed drunkards.
By not (re)producing good workers for the state, fallen women
threaten industry and the English nation. In short, fallen
women threaten the economy of working- and middle-class homes,
England's industrial and domestic economies, and the military-
industrial imperial economy. Fears of fallen women's
contagion and social disruption legitimated a series of legal
and medical measures to control women's sexuality.
"Controlling women's sexuality, exalting maternity and
breeding a virile race of empire-builders were widely
perceived as the paramount means for controlling the health
and wealth of the male imperial body politic, so that, by the
turn of the century, sexual purity emerged as a controlling
metaphor for racial, economic and political power" (McClintock
47).
The Fall as Narrative Frame
Esther is the fallen woman next to whom Mary's actions
are read. As Anderson argues, she occupies a "dual status as
social victim and story" (118) and "her character conjoins
romance and social realism" (123). As story, Esther is the
warning of what the transgressive working-class woman will
become: the outcast whore. Esther is the stereotypical
melodramatic literary representation of the woman fallen to

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ambition and vanity: she loves above her class, is abandoned,
suffers, sells herself, endures the prolonged agony of her
miserable life until, finally, the death she longs for
releases her from the prison of her life. She says that it is
"better to die than to live to lead such a life as I do"
(191). This fallen-woman plot frames Mary Barton: the novel
opens with the chapter "A Mysterious Disappearance," an
allusion to her fall, and closes with her death. While this
is a retrospective story framing the narrative, the specific
moments of that story are revealed in bits and pieces, by
implication. The dialogic revelation of Esther’s fall comes
during a May holiday on which the Wilson and Barton families
are enjoying the outdoors. Out of their wives' hearing, Mr.
Wilson asks John Barton about Esther, and John replies: "My
mind is, she's gone off with somebody" (5). Esther was last
seen by her landlady, Mrs. Bradshaw, "dressed in her Sunday
gown, and with a new ribbon in her bonnet, and gloves on her
hands, like the lady she was so fond of thinking herself" (5).
John attributes Esther's fall to the "sad snare" of her
beauty, from which she was "so puffed up, that there was no
holding her in" (6), and her work in a factory, which enabled
her to indulge her vanity: "That's the worst of factory work
for girls. They can earn so much when work is plenty, that
they can maintain themselves any how" (6).
Esther does not appear in the story until long after her
discursive introduction, and, when she does appear, it is as

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the suicidal prostitute whose tragic trajectory makes her
desire death above all things. Esther, who succumbs to the
dangers of the factory and the streets, who seeks her fortune
with her officer lover, suffers terribly before her pitiful
death. She enters the text to warn, first John (by whom she
is repulsed), and then Jem, of Mary's relation to Harry Carson
and her imminent peril of falling. When she appears, she is
"hopeless, so abandoned by all living things, "and dreads "the
averted eye, the altered voice, the infernal loathing" which
knowledge of her prostitution would bring (281). She is the
animal body whose "animal state of mind and body clashed
jarringly on the peacefulness of the day" (317). At the end
of her short but tragic career, she wishes to be "faraway in
the country [so that] she could steal aside and die in a
copse, or a dough, like the wild animals; but here the police
would let no one alone in the streets, and she wanted a spot
to die in, in peace" (461). Finally, in the classic Victorian
style, Esther comes to her old home, "a white face pressed
against the panes on the outside, gazing intently into the
dusky chamber" (462). When Jem and Mary rush outside, they
find Esther "fallen into what appeared simply a heap of white
or light-coloured clothes, fainting or dead," the "poor
crushed Butterfly—the once innocent Esther" (462). "She had
come (as a wounded deer drags its heavy limbs once more to the
green coolness of the lair in which it was born, there to

143
die), to see the place familiar to her innocence, yet once
again before her death" (462).
Anderson argues that "the character of Esther . . .
constitutes ... the conflation of romantic melodrama and the
real" (115). As such, John's first allusion to Esther
contains this entire melodramatic story of the fallen woman.
Even before the narrative unfolds Esther's history, we know
what her fate will be. We do not, however, know what Mary's
fate will be. Mary's development occurs in Esther's shadow.
The pivotal tension in the novel is whether or not Mary, too,
will fall. When Mary must go to work, John says "the factory"
is "out of the question." The factory, as we have seen,
predisposes women to the fall by virtue of paying them enough
to allow them to indulge their vanity in ribbons and fine
clothes. As Gagnier argues, "Gaskell attributed most social
evil to the destruction of family life under the factory
system" (105). "There were," then, "two things open—going
out to service, and the dressmaking business" (26).
(Ironically, the dress-maker learns how to fashion elegant
clothing, thus giving her access to the signifiers of the
upper-class.) While the dress-making business appears to be
the lesser of two evils, even this venture is fraught with
peril. Esther's fall is attributed, in part, to the perils of
work outside the home, and she fears Mary, too, will succumb
to similar dangers:
I found out Mary went to learn dressmaking, and I
began to be frightened for her; for it's a bad life

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for a girl to be out late at night in the streets,
and after many an hour of weary work, they're ready
to follow after any novelty that makes a little
change. (190)
Esther's fears are, in fact, well-grounded. One of the
problems with working outside the home is that it prohibits
women from properly performing their domestic duties. In the
opening scenes of the book, Mary is the domestic-woman-in-
training who, under her mother's supervision, competently
fries up ham and eggs and properly cares for a cheerful house
full of guests. "Mrs. Barton knew manners too well to do
anything but sit at the tea-table and make tea, though in her
heart she longed to be able to superintend the frying of the
ham, and cast many an anxious look at Mary as she broke the
eggs and turned the ham, with a very comfortable portion of
confidence in her own culinary powers" (17). When Mrs. Barton
dies, Mary loses her mother's guidance, her domestic training
ends, and the working-class home begins to break up. The
Barton home, with its "warm and glowing" fire, "hospitable"
atmosphere, "blue and white checkered curtains" and "two
geraniums, unpruned and leafy," formed a "defense from out¬
door pryers" and allowed "friends" to meet and "enjoy
themselves" while privately "shut in" (12-13). This happy
interior home space slowly deteriorates after Mary's death.
The home is such an important rallying point for the
ideology of domesticity that we see Mary's imminent peril of
falling in the breakup of her home. And, when his wife dies,
"one of the good influences over John Barton's life" dies with

145
her (22). John goes out of control. He becomes increasingly
more violent, and "once in his passion he had even beaten"
Mary (135). John cannot keep work, and the household goods
are, piece by piece, sold off. The house becomes a dismal
space, which lacked "the cheerful look it had had in the days
when money was never wanted to purchase soap and brushes,
black-lead and pipe-clay. It was dingy and comfortless"
(134). The domestic woman's "devoted application of domestic
economy might enhance the value of a man's meager wages"
(Armstrong 87). She can stretch money, make something from
nothing, and help keep her husband in the work force. "Home"
and "family," then, cannot exist without a good domestic woman
to organize and maintain them. As Esther tells Jem "decent,
good people have homes. We have none" (193). Without her
mother's tutelary guidance, Mary's domestic training stops and
she enlists herself to Mrs. Simmonds as a dressmaker's
apprentice. Shortly after this, she begins a downward spiral
parallel to that attributed to Esther. She comes home later
and later, she is open to Harry Carson's attentions, and she
indulges her romantic imagining and longing for social status.
The Fallen Woman as Home Wrecker
The breakup of the Barton home is, in part at least,
attributable to Esther. The domestic woman makes a stable
home and family, while the fallen woman destroys home and
disrupts family. She is the figurative, if not the literal,

146
death of the domestic woman. In fact, John blames Esther for
his wife Mary's death. He:
Recalled the doctor's words, and bitterly thought
of the shock his poor wife had so recently had, in
the mysterious disappearance of her cherished
sister. His feelings towards Esther almost
amounted to curses. It was she who had brought on
all this sorrow. Her giddiness, her lightness of
conduct, had wrought this woe. His previous
thoughts about her had been tinted with wonder and
pity, but now he hardened his heart against her for
ever. (22)
Not only is Esther responsible for Mrs. Barton's death
and the ensuing breakup of the formerly happy home, she poses
a constant threat of contagion. Any communication Esther has
with Mary is potentially contaminating. As Anderson argues,
Gaskell feared that "once female subjects 'read' cultural
texts like Esther, they become imprinted, ideologically
reproduced" (123). Mary's resemblance to Esther embodies the
"threat of mimetic contamination" (Anderson 123). Their
resemblance produces anxiety in John, who "often looked at
Mary and wished she were not so like her aunt, for the very
bodily likeness seemed to suggest the possibility of a similar
likeness in their fate; and then this idea used to enrage his
irritable mind, and he became suspicious and anxious about
Mary's conduct" (167). Gaskell's narrative attributes Mary's
near fall to her imitation of her aunt Esther. Once, Esther
asked Mary: "What should you think if I sent for you some day
and made a lady of you!" (7). Mary remembers "the sayings of
her absent, the mysterious aunt Esther," which "had an
acknowledged influence over [her]. She knew she was very

147
pretty"(26). Mary thus has implanted in her the desire for
class transgression Esther represents. "With this
consciousness [Mary] had early determined that her beauty
should make her a lady; the rank she coveted the more for her
father's abuse; the rank to which she firmly believed her lost
aunt Esther had arrived" (27). Mary plays out this desire in
her flirtation with Harry Carson:
Mary was ambitious and did not favor Mr. Carson the
less because he was rich and a gentleman. The old
leaven, infused years ago by her aunt Esther,
fermented in her little bosom, and perhaps all the
more, for her father's aversion to the rich and the
gentle. Such is the contrariness of the human
heart, from Eve downwards, that we all, in our old-
Adam state, fancy things forbidden sweetest. So
Mary dwelt upon and enjoyed the idea of some day
becoming a lady, and doing all the elegant nothings
appertaining to lady-hood. (92)
Working-Class Romance Plots and Domestication
Mary is tempted, but, unlike the other fallen women of
these novels, secures her position as respectable working-
class wife and mother by refusing temptation. Her ability to
resist temptation relies upon her accepting the role of the
domesticated working-class woman, a role defined by her
willingness to choose a mate of her own class, to raise his
legitimate children, to labor in domestic service for her
husband and children, and to keep her husband laboring in the
service of the state. Gaskell's narrative accomplishes Mary's
domestication through the inculcation of the ideal of romantic
love. Explicating Gaskell's Cranford and Wives and Daughters,

148
Langland argues that "the boy-marries-girl romance plot and
the corollary drive of the loving couple toward solid, middle-
class respectability" achieves a "mystification of the
bourgeois project" (113).
Gaskell indulges in the rhetoric of romance in a
way that exposes it as a fiction concocted by
individuals to mask more utilitarian motives. ...
The entanglement of social convenience with
personal desire reveals "love" as a construction,
especially because the guestion of a "suitable"
partner is foremost. (Langland 136)
While Gaskell's middle-class romance plots reveal "love" as a
construction and expose the "rhetoric of love and spiritual
uplift" and the way "love is harnessed to the work of
solidifying social bonds and social status" (137), her
working-class romance plots participate in another
mystification designed to prohibit class transgression and
domesticate working-class women. Middle-class romance plots
mystify the means by which mutually advantageous middle-class
marriage contracts are forged. Within this discourse, it is
the individual's desire for personal or economic gain that is
masked and that Gaskell’s critigue unmasks. But the working-
class "true love" romance mystifies the means by which cross¬
class unions are prohibited. In the "true love" romance,
working-class women recognize their true love for working-
class men, and this recognition entails a revelation of the
vanity of desiring an upper-class mate. Accepting "true love"
as recognition and revelation masks the "true love" plot's
socio-political-economic desire to demarcate and segregate the

149
classes. Within this discourse, romantic imagination (the
frog turns into a prince, Prince Charming meets Cinderella)
ruins young girls. But true love saves them.
Gaskell uncritically represents Mary's recognition and
revelation of true love for Jem without exposing it as
mystification. Theoretically, Mary could marry Harry when he
eventually asks her and still maintain her respectability
while also moving up in class. But, within Gaskell's
narrative structure, to marry Harry would be to fall. As
Kalikoff argues, "conventionally, women in Victorian fiction
fall because of the powerfully appealing possibility of
romantic love and social mobility ... Class is almost always
a crucial element in the eguation of seduction." Thus,
marrying above her class would be, for Mary, "the greatest
fall possible" ("Falling Woman" 358). Similarly, when Ruth is
tempted by Bellingham's proposal, she is threatened with a
spiritual fall: to marry would destroy the redemption she has
earned through a maternal self-negation grounded in her
spiritual work and physical labor. Ultimately, then, the
fallen woman is one who refuses the work appropriate to her
class and who rejects self-renunciation. Mary can marry Jem
because he is of the same class. Thus Gaskell's narrative,
while it demystifies middle-class "love" and critigues the
romance plot, participates in another mystification of "true
love" as recognition and revelation which leads working-class
women to same-class unions and domestic happiness. The

150
discourse of true love, then, is as much about "the right boy
meeting the right girl" as is the romance plot (Langland 147).
Transgressive Desire and Punishment
Simply recognizing true love is, however, not enough to
save Mary from suffering. She flirted with Harry, desired
upward social mobility, and rejected Jem's first proposal.
She believes she deserves her suffering and that her flirting
ruined Jem. When she believes Jem guilty of killing Harry
Carson, she asks:
Oh, why did she ever listen to the tempter?
Why did she ever give ear to her own suggestions,
and cravings after wealth and grandeur? Why had
she thought it a fine thing to have a rich lover?
She—she had deserved it all/ but he was the
victim,—he, the beloved. (271)
After refusing Jem's proposal, she sees Harry's wealth and her
desire for them as "hollow vanities to her, now she had
discovered the passionate secret of her soul. She felt as if
she almost hated Mr. Carson, who had decoyed her with his
baubles. She now saw how vain, how nothing to her, would be
all the gaieties and pomps, all joys and pleasures, unless she
might share them with Jem" (152-3). Having balked against her
role as domestic woman, she must be punished. Even her best
friend, Margaret, has "no sympathy with the temptations to
which loveliness, vanity, ambition, or the desire of being
admired, exposes so many; no sympathy with flirting girls, in
short" (294). And Mary accepts this judgement. She "knew
herself to blame; felt her errors in every fibre of her heart"

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(304). Within this discursive construction, Mary is guilty of
far more than vain flirtation—she is guilty of wreaking
social havoc and moral disorder. Without domestic women, men
and children run amuck and chaos reigns. Jem tells Mary:
"You'll hear, may be, of me as a drunkard, and may be as a
thief, and may be as a murderer. Remember! when all are
speaking ill of me, you will have no right to blame me, for
it's your cruelty that will have made me what I feel I shall
become. You won't even say you'll try to like me; will you,
Mary?" (151). And his mother tells her that "I shall lay his
death at thy door" (295). Man's ruin, then, is woman's fault.
Mary secures her place as a good woman by accepting full
responsibility for Jem's despair and her penance for having
desired more than the life of a working-class drudge. Having
realized that "she had been very wrong" to refuse Jem, she
resolves to:
Try and do right, and have womanly patience, until
[Jem] saw her changed and repentant mind in her
natural actions. Even if she had to wait for
years, it was no more than now it was easy to look
forward to, as a penance for her giddy flirting on
the one hand, and her cruel mistake concerning her
feelings on the other. (154)
Having accepted her penance and chosen a working-class
husband over a rich lover and ease and comfort, Mary is
redeemed. She is properly domesticated, and the home is the
insignia of domestication. Significantly, once Mary hears of
Jem's arrest and positions herself as his defender, she does
not return to work. The domestic woman's sphere is within the

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home and her responsibilities to her husband and children.
Reading in Mary's championship of Jem the full realization of
her domestication seems at first to be at odds with the
narrative's representation of Mary's activity. In order to
free Jem, she must actively lobby on his behalf: she
investigates the circumstances surrounding the murder; she
holds secret information about her father's guilt and devises
a plan to free Jem while not implicating her father; she
convinces Job Legh to help her secure Jem's freedom; she makes
a perilous journey from Manchester to Liverpool in order to
find Will and get him to provide and alibi for Jem. In fact,
Mary engages in a flurry of activity which requires calm,
strength, reasoning, legal maneuvers, travel—and she is
successful. In this sense, Mary ventures into the world and
emerges victorious.
But what precisely is Mary's victory? While her
significant activity is an extension outside of the domestic
realm, it is a failed domestic space that she leaves, and she
leaves this space in order to realize a domestic harmony with
Jem. Mary's venture is victorious because she secures for
herself a husband and a home, and, once this is secured, she
remains within the domestic space she has won. And, while she
at one level does access the word—she speaks on Jem's behalf
in the courtroom—her speaking is little more than a public
confession of her guilt and not sufficient to secure Jem's
release. It is Will's last-minute dramatic arrival and

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testimony that wins Jem’s acquittal. Mary's speaking is "a
public rite of humiliation in order to attain repentance"
(Kalikoff "Falling Woman" 364). Her word is not authorized—
she does not wield, in Bourdieu’s terms, the performative
power of speech. In fact, it is because Jem made the mistake
of acting on the authority of Mary's word that he and Mary did
not unite, he had the fatal fight with Harry, and was
subsequently arrested. As Mary says, "I never found out how
dearly I loved another till one day, when James Wilson asked
me to marry him, and I was very hard and sharp in my answer
... and he took me at my word and left me" (383). Had Jem not
taken her at her word, much of the ensuing trauma would have
been avoided. Ultimately, then, Mary's courtroom confession
establishes woman's word as unreliable and reinscribes woman's
access to the word as her confession of sexual transgression.47
The novel closes with a celebration of domestic harmony,
however hard won. Jem's arrest and the shadow cast on Mary's
character make it impossible for them to remain in Manchester.
4 One might at first read Esther's insistence on telling
her story—"confessing"—to Jem as access to the word. But,
as Anderson argues, Esther's encounter with Jem Wilson reveals
her "vexed status as both social victim and figure for
melodrama or romance; and her encounter with Mary... reveals
how gender inflects the scene of reading, as well as the
difficulties Gaskell's implicit ideology poses for a feminist
reading" (117). Esther with Jem is linked to Coleridge's
Mariner, compelled to speak, obsessed with her own story.
"Like Coleridge's Mariner, then, Esther is a narratively
straightjacketed character: the allusion renders explicit her
peculiar status as a person become a story" (118). In this
sense, her speech is less her own than it is a compulsive
repetition of the already-written story she inscribes.
Esther's word lacks its own authority.

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Having been implicated in social disruption, they must
emigrate in order to secure their domestic space. Our last
image is of Jem and Mary in Canada, and, "at the door of the
house, looking towards the town, stands Mary, watching the
return of her husband from his daily work" (463). This image
of the domesticated woman greeting the returning husband is
echoed in Adam Bede. Mary's domestic bliss is amplified by
Esther's realization that she would "work, and toil, and
starve, and die, if necessary, for a husband, a home,—for
children" (279).
David Copperfield
Like the other novels I have examined, David
Copperfield's narratives of the fall reveal the class
transgression underlying narratives of fallenness, the
punitive quality of narratives of redemption, and the
ideological work of gender in domesticating working-class
women. It further demonstrates the importance of this work to
keeping middle-class women domesticated and directing middle-
class male desire to appropriate middle-class marriage
partners. While the novel is in fact about David working out
his social and economic dilemmas and securing for himself a
middle-class life, it simultaneously prohibits such agency for
women, especially working-class women.48 Men can have access
48It can be argued that Betsey Trotwood's character offers
possibilities of agency for women comparable to that David
works out for himself. She has sworn off of men, abandons her

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to the world. As David says: "Misty ideas of being a young
man at my own disposal, of the importance attaching to a young
man at his own disposal, of the wonderful things to be seen
and done by that magnificent animal, and the wonderful effects
he could not fail to make upon society, lured me away" (330).
This access to public city space, independent living and
unchaperoned movement (traditionally male venues), was
increasingly open to women in the urban industrial landscape.
The trope of the prostitute in David Copperfield, as with the
other novels I have examined, works to restructure working-
class women's sexual relations along the lines of middle-class
domesticity and demonizes working-class women's narrative
fantasies for upward social mobility. But David Copperfield
reveals another important function of the trope of the
sister-in-law, Clara, when she delivers a boy instead of a
girl, and takes in a series of working-class women in order to
"train" them to self-sufficiency. But Betsey, it turns out,
is being extorted by her still-living husband; her women-
projects invariably end up getting married; and, after her
loyal silence about Wickfield's loss of her income, moves in
with David and sets up good housekeeping. In the end, then,
Betsey, while eccentric, does not have access to the same
agency David achieves. She does not restore herself to her
position through her own work: it is David who, after her
economic fall, opens his lodging to her (though admittedly
these are lodgings she has provided for him) and Traddles who
discovers Heep’s fraud and restores Betsey's income. More
crucially, Betsey is perhaps best known as Mr. Dick's
protector and champion. Mr. Dick, who is a sympathetic and
endearing character, is nevertheless an impotent man; he has
been cast off by his relatives, the only writing for which he
is competent is legal copying, and he cannot be self-
sufficient in the world. Ultimately, then, Betsey is good
only for launching David's career and recognizing Mr. Dick's
virtues. Her possibilities for agency are thus, as with other
women in the narrative, highly limited.

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prostitute: it articulates the anxiety underlying working and
middle-class women's mass entry into public space. A
considerable social anxiety attached to factory girls going
home late; working-class women entering, often unescorted,
dance halls and shopping malls; the wide availability of
public transportation which enabled women to move easily
throughout the city. The threat of being unable to contain
women's movement also underlies social, political, medical and
literary efforts to categorize and restrain them. Like Mary
Barton, David Copperfield is explicitly linked to the
colonial-imperial project—the residue, the underside of
domestic failure, emigrate. But David Copperfield also
demonstrates the raced nature of fallenness. The working-
classes are infantilized and commodified, a move that equates
them with the colonized other.
The Fall and Class Transgression
Emily's character affords the most obvious reading of
working-class women's fall as a result of their desire for
upward social mobility (signified as moral turpitude) and
their animally seducing bodies. While Dickens' narrative does
represent Emily sympathetically, there is nevertheless a
narrative ambivalence about whether Emily is an innocent
victim of seduction or culpable for eliciting desire.
Anderson notes the peculiar mixture of "sympathy and sadism"
throughout the text, a mixture that requires an interpretation

157
of Emily to account for both the narrative1s empathy for Emily
and its voyeuristic pleasure in her fall.49 On the sympathetic
register, Emily's desire to “be a lady" is presented as her
desire to help her relatives: "I wake when [the wind] blows,
and tremble to think of Uncle Dan and Ham and believe I hear
'em crying out for help. That's why I should like so much to
be a lady" (85-86).50 But we are also first introduced to her
as "a most beautiful little girl ... with a necklace of blue
beads on," who wouldn't let David "kiss her when [he] offered
to, but ran away and hid herself" (80). The child Emily
elicits the child David's desire [albeit a desire represented
as "innocent"], and, while her first response is to "hide
herself," this initial withdrawal does not impede the progress
of their childhood romance. David fancies Emily and himself
married, and she is the love of his childhood and early
adolescent life.
An analysis of Emily as seductress must be sensitive to
the difference between David-the-character and David-the-
49Anderson argues that "moments of harshness, recoil, or
scapegoating frequently inhabit even moments of ostensible
charity and vindication" (95). Peggotty is "obsessed with a
fantasy of [Emily's] utter prostration" (95), Martha Endell
"delivers melodramatic speeches about the necessity of her own
obliteration and is descriptively assimilated to the degraded
urban environment" (95), and, "in order to fully vindicate
Annie . . . the reader . . . must do violence to the image of
Annie's innocence" (96).
50Emily's fantasy of her Uncle Dan and her fellow
orphan/eventual fiancé Ham can also be read as Emily's anger—
the rescue fantasy which is built upon an initial punishment
works two ways.

158
adult-narrator. Keeping in mind the extent to which the
narration is informed by the narrator's adult interpretations,
we still discover ample textual evidence that Emily, whether
or not the character David perceived her at the time as
eliciting his desire, is presented by the narrator David as
having done so. During their adolescent courting, the
narrator recalls that "she seemed to delight in teasing me"
(194). She was both "sly and shy at once" (195) and
"tormenting" (376). During a late adolescent visit to
Yarmouth, David hears rumors of Emily as a "bad woman," and,
when he spies on her with Minnie's child, he reflects that she
had "enough of willfulness in her bright face to justify what
[he] had heard; with much of the old capricious coyness
lurking in it" (364). Though he goes on to say that he is
sure there was nothing in Emily but what was meant for
goodness and happiness, the mention of her "wilfulness" and
"capricious coyness" justifies the gossip he has heard about
Emily as a bad woman, a woman who transgresses bounds, is
uncontainable and therefore cast as a threat and cast out in
order to contain the threat she poses. As Poovey argues, "the
narrative assigns to woman—in this case, Emily—
responsibility for the 'stain' of sexual provocation, even
though the extent to which Emily is conscious of her sexuality
is left unclear" (97).
Emily's sexuality thus underwrites the seduction
narrative. Like Esther, she is acknowledged in advance as the

159
outcast fallen woman. As Anderson argues, "at both the level
of retrospective narration and the level of the event
narrated, Emily is reduced to the form of a fall; she becomes
an outline of her own future . . . hers is a being perceived in
advance of itself" (97). As in A dam Bede, working-class
women's desire for upward social mobility is sexualized, and
the working-class women's threat, coded as sexual (she elicits
male desire), is then punished in these narratives of the
fall. Poovey argues that, in fact, "Emily's punishment is
multifaceted and extreme: she is almost completely exiled from
the novel after her fall" and "she is subjected to Rosa
Dartle's vicious verbal scarification, of which both David and
the reader are horrified observers" (96). Poovey further
argues that "in David Copperfield ... woman is made to bear
the burden of sexuality and to be the site of sexual guilt
because the problematic aspects of sexuality can be
rhetorically (if not actually) mastered when they are
externalized and figured in an other" (98).
Part of the problem Emily represents is that, as a
working-class woman, she is not an appropriate object of
desire for middle-class men. Poovey has argued that Emily
poses an:
Indirect threat to the identity of the hero . . .
specifically, the possibility that David's
childhood infatuation with Emily might mature into
love introduces into the rhetoric of affection the
specter of class. ... A sexual relationship
between the two could only lead to harm: if he
seduced but did not marry her, it would ruin
David's honor; if he made Emily his wife, it would

160
exclude David from the social position he
"deserves." (98)
Similarly, McClintock argues the problem domestic servants
pose for middle-class women's subjectivity.51 The middle-class
household relied on paid labor to perform the dirty work of
domesticity. "The separation of the private from the public
was achieved only by paying working-class women for domestic
work that wives were supposed to perform for free. Servants'
labor was indispensable to the process of transforming wives
labor power into their husbands' political power" (164). This
resulted in a "class doubling" of the Victorian household
(89). The very people (generally women) taking physical care
of and spending large amounts of time with middle-class
children were "off limits" to them socially—the class
divisions differentiating "subjects" from "servants" ("us"
from "them") entailed a devaluing and dehumanization of the
people performing paid labor in middle-class households. For
51In her critique of Freud's oedipal theory as both
concealing and revealing class as a dimension of power within
bourgeois family structures, McClintock argues that:
By forgetting the nurse, Freud could forget the
structuring of infant and social identity around
economic imbalances in the family. The family
romance is cleansed of class contamination and,
most crucially, of money. Through the Oedipal
theory, the multiplicity of family economies are
reduced to an economy of one, naturalized and
privatized as the universal unit of the monogamous
family of man, a "hereditary scheme" transcending
history and culture. The family is vaunted as
lying beyond politics and hence beyond social
change, at precisely the moment that Victorian
middle-class women began to challenge the
boundaries between private and public, waged work
and unwaged work. (93)

161
the middle-classes, "this doubling gives rise to a fragility
and uncertainty of identity," one aspect of which we can read
in "the ubiquitous references in Victorian male life to
working-class women as "unsexed," "manly," "coarse" and "rude"
(95).52
This difficulty inflects our reading of Clara Copperfield
and Clara Peggotty. The two women are linked by their
Christian names, which the narrator admits was a domestic
confusion. While both women are early objects of David's
desire, the narrative acknowledges desire only for the mother.
David eroticizes his mother, whom he remembers with "her
pretty hair and youthful shape," and he desexualizes Peggotty,
whom he remembers as having:
No shape at all, and eyes so dark that they seemed
to darken their whole neighbourhood in her face,
and cheeks and arms so hard and red that I wondered
the birds didn't peck her in preference to apples.
(61)
Additionally, Peggotty's forefinger was "roughened by
needlework, like a pocket nutmeg-grater" (61), an image which
recurs in the closing scene of the book. The repetition of
Peggotty's's hardened forefinger is noteworthy in that it
marks her hands as sites of manual labor and utility and,
52This quote is particularly interesting in its
construction of Peggotty as colored and subhuman. As a "dark"
and a "red" woman, she is linked to the colonized Africans,
Indians, and Native Americans. As a shapeless object to be
mistaken by birds for apples, she is less than human. This
illustrates the double disavowal by dominant Victorian
society, in which "women's domestic work in the industrial
metropolis and . . . colonized labor in the cultures coming
under violent imperial rule" were devalued (138).

162
as phallic symbol, as a site of power. While Peggotty may be
a site of power for David, hers is a power in his service
(properly domesticated). Her body is desexualized, a
narrative move particularly interesting when read next to
David's expression of attachment to and desire for her:
Peggotty refuses to marry until David's home has broken up and
she can no longer serve him, and then she marries only after
obtaining David's approval and permission and making clear
that she is, first and foremost, David's possession, and only
secondarily her husband's. Peggotty's loyalty to David allows
him to keep her without having to recognize his desire to
possess her. Peggotty is thus the good working-class woman.
David can neither similarly keep Emily nor misrecognize his
desire to possess her. She elicits his desire, and her body
cannot be so clearly differentiated from those of the middle-
class women who are appropriate objects of his desire: she is
not shapeless, coarse, roughened. The narrative anxiety
surrounding Emily, then, is at least in part the anxiety of
signification: her body is not written as working-class. Even
Steerforth swears that "she was born to be a lady" ( 393 ).53
On what basis are the classes to be differentiated, and thus
segregated, if they cannot be told apart? David's attraction
b3Poovey argues that, though the desire Emily elicits is
first and most strongly attached to David, it is Steerforth
that ultimately acts out this "complex of desire and punitive
anger of which hostility towards sexuality is the cause and
Emily the object" (98).

163
to Emily is thus doubly problematic in that it both reflects
his own fears of attenuated agency and defies class bounds.
Narratives of the Fall and the Legitimation of Working-Class
Women's Exploitation
Anderson has already argued the important identification
between David and Annie, Martha, and Emily.54 And Poovey makes
an important psychoanalysis of the "transfer of David's
affection from his mother to Emily to Dora to Agnes," which
"works through the constellation of desire, anger, and anxiety
structurally associated with but narratively distanced from
the mother" ( 99 ). 55 I would like to extend these analyses of
541 concur with Anderson's argument that "David is
terrified of being absorbed by the kind of degraded
environment that ... produce[s] Martha" (100). Martha's
"central role in the novel is to figure an unstable relation
between self and environment, one from which David must
distance himself, one against which he consolidates a self"
(100). Similarly, David "identifies most deeply with" Annie,
"a character who must protest that she is not fallen" (100).
David's autonomous subject position is thus determined against
the attenuated agency of the fallen woman, a determination
which symbolically casts out his fears of his own attenuated
agency. Anderson's argument is, however, most concerned with:
The specific and repeated gendering of the
predicaments of social constraint, one that allots
to the fallen woman spectacular ordeals: loss of
identity distinct from one's own immediate
surrounding, enforced and nontransformative self¬
readings, and deficient immunity from the
constraint and contagion of narrative. (106-7)
While I share these concerns, I am most interested in pursuing
the specific relations between narrative representations of
fallenness, and the ideological work of these narratives to
the modern restructuring of working-class sexual and family
relations.
“Poovey argues that:
In David Copperfield.. .we see the construction of
the ideal of unity at the site of the mother; this

164
the proliferated doubles and problems of agency in the novel
to account for the threat working-class women pose to middle-
class male agency and for the role narratives of the fall play
in legitimating working-class women's exploitation. We can
read one level of working-class women's fall legitimating
middle-class exploitation and power in David’s feminized
relation to Steerforth. This relation exposes the middle-
class male subject's anxiety about appropriating power in the
new bourgeois state. The triangulated relation between Emily,
takes the form of a series of substitutions that
exposes and punished the mother's guilt without
jeopardizing the idealized woman she
retrospectively becomes. That this structural and
ideological rewriting of the mother is explicitly
represented as the story of David's psychological
maturation—his education in how to know his own
heart and choose the proper partner—masks the
extent to which his identity depends on the
contradictions repressed by this symbolic work.
(92)
Clara Copperfield—who is "unfaithful" to David with Mr.
Murdstone—"is indirectly to blame for David's being sent to
the bottling warehouse, that degradation that momentarily
threatens to 'blight [his]...career, and ruin his prospects"
(99). Dora is a double of Clara, neither of whom can perform
their proper work. Both Clara and Dora are failed domestic
women, a failure particularly
threatening to middle-class male identity because women's
"domestic authority—indeed, her self-realization—depended on
her ability to regulate her own desire." Thus "the faithful
woman as wife anchored her husband's desire along with her
own, giving it an object as she gave him a home. In this
model, self-regulation was a particularly valuable and valued
form of labor, for it domesticated a man's (sexual desire in
the private sphere without curtailing his ambition in the
economy" (115). There is then a link between domestic
mismanagement and sexual infidelity: "a middle-class woman who
did not manage her servants efficiently (as Dora does not)
jeopardied the ground of middle-class male identity as surely
as did a woman who was sexually unfaithful, because she made
it clear that class exploitation was integral to middle-class
domesticity" (115).

165
Steerforth, and David reveals more than David's desire for
Emily—it works out his fear of not being able to earn/deserve
Dora. Because David ultimately proves himself the hero of his
story, the novel reaffirms the relation between work,
earnings, and justice for men while simultaneously redefining
and limiting women's appropriate work: women are increasingly
confined to the domestic realm; working-class women must be
the invisible laborers in the domestic and industrial
economies; and, while men may make (and lose) their fortunes
in the industrial/imperial economy, women may not—their new
job is to manage the display of wealth. And the working-class
women's labor necessary to the display of wealth is always
effaced.
Most obviously, David and Emily occupy equivalent subject
positions through their mutual attraction to Steerforth. Both
hopelessly (and helplessly) adore him and both are seduced by
him. David idolizes Steerforth and perceives him to be a
superior human being. And, like Emily, he attaches to
Steerforth and is, for a time, "protected" by him.
("Protector" was the popular euphemism for a mistress's upper-
class lover. Thus Steerforth as David's "protector" parallels
Steerforth as Emily's "keeper.") David believes that
Steerforth has "some inborn power of attraction" and "carried
a spell with him to which it was a natural weakness to yield"
(157). He fondly remembers Steerforth's "dashing way ... of
treating [him] like a plaything" which "was more agreeable to

166
[him] than any behaviour he could have adopted" (358). Mrs.
Mowcher calls David "soft wax in his hands" (524). And David
cannot, in the end, blame Steerforth for seducing Emily:
Deeply as I felt my own unconscious part in his
pollution of an honest home, I believed that if I
had been brought face to face with him, I could not
have uttered one reproach. I should have loved him
so well still—though he fascinated me no longer—I
should have held in so much tenderness the memory
of my affection for him, that I think I should have
been as weak as a spirit-wounded child, in all but
the entertainment of a thought that we could ever
be re-united. (516)
As Poovey points out, Steerforth's seduction of Emily plays
out David's desire for her. But more profoundly, Emily's
relation to Steerforth mirrors David's anxieties about being
able to "earn" Dora. Approaching the Emily-Steerforth-David-
Dora relation from this position, it is also clear that Emily
is to Steerforth as David is to Dora: just as Emily is an
inappropriate mate for Steerforth, Dora's father rejects David
as a suitor for Dora: he is too poor, not well enough
established. Since David's aunt lost her fortune, he has no
money or means of his own, and Mr. Spenlow chastises David for
not properly considering their different stations: "Have you
considered my daughter's station in life, the projects I may
contemplate for her advancement, the testamentary intentions
I may have with reference to her? Have you considered
anything, Mr. Copperfield?" (614). David pleads his case,
explaining that he has "exerted every energy" to "improve" his
fortune: "I am sure I shall improve it in time. Will you
grant me time" (615).

167
In time, then, David does earn Dora. While Emily can do
nothing to "deserve" Steerforth, a number of happy
coincidences combine to allow David to "earn" Dora. Dora's
father loses his fortune. He, like so many other characters
in the novel, "falls." Mr. Spenlow's fall, which anticipates
and is the backdrop against which David "rises," marks the
anxiety attendant upon class status that relies upon the
acquisition of money: the middle-class can fall out of fortune
as well as rise into it.56 After her father dies, Dora goes
to her aunts, from whom David's hard work and dedication
eventually win approval. No such option is open to Emily.
Steerforth's mother lives, Steerforth himself is not inclined
to marry beneath him, and there is no work available to Emily
which would allow her to "make herself" (make money, gain
respectable middle-class status) as does David. David's
ability to prove himself through the value of his work is
especially important to the narrative because his identity as
a "gentleman," conferred upon him through his father, is
threatened on several registers: his mother's class position
56There are, in fact, a number of significant "falls" in
the book. As other critics have noted, David's fall is
closely linked to Emily's; Clara Copperfield and Dora Spenlow-
Copperfield, as Poovey argues, "fall"; Betsey Trotwood falls
(loses her fortune); Mr. Wickfield falls (becomes an
alcoholic, loses his practice); Annie falls symbolically; the
Micawbers are the always-falling; Steerforth falls, in
consequence of which his mother and Rosa Dartle also decline;
Mr. Dick falls (out of sanity and consequently his family's
support). The proliferation of fallen/falling characters are
the fabric against which and the condition upon which David
may rise.

168
(she is a nurserymaid before David's father marries her); his
mother's second marriage to Mr. Murdstone, which is doubly
threatening because he is exiled from his home and because his
father willed all of his assets to his mother and made no
separate provision for David; and his aunt's loss of fortune.
These threats to David's class position and the strategies
through which he not only maintains his class identity but
proves that he deserves them are part of the novel' s
articulation of the middle-class male fear of attenuated
subjectivity. The narrative allows David to earn access to
the bastions of middle-class respectability and thereby
alleviates the anxiety surrounding middle-class male claims to
power and subjectivity.
Failed Domestic Women and Narratives of the Fall
Poovey argues that "domestic mismanagement is linked to
sexual infidelity in David Copper field: a middle-class woman
who did not manage her servants efficiently (as Dora does not)
jeopardized the ground of middle-class male identity as surely
as did a woman who was sexually unfaithful, because she made
it clear that class exploitation was integral to middle-class
domesticity" (115). I would like to enlarge upon an analysis
of the relation between failed domestic women and tropes of
fallenness in David Copperfield. Both Clara and Dora are
child-wives, pretty, vain, and flirtatious women who have not
properly renounced body and desire in the name of domestic

169
work. David knows that men's attention pleases his mother
(73). And Dora, like Emily, is indulged, pampered, treated
like a toy. She is not to be bothered with work. When David
admonishes her to learn good housekeeping, she says: "Oh,
please don't be practical! ... Because it frightens me so! ...
I haven't got any strength at all" (604). Dora asks David to
call her his child-wife (711). Because neither Clara nor Dora
understand proper, they occupy a boarder position between
fallenness and virtue. Both refuse the work appropriate to
their stations. The middle-class woman's work is household
management, caring for and arranging the goods of empire in
the castle of empire—the middle-class home. Dora not only
refuses her work, she dissuades David from his. She tells
him: "Now don't get up at five o'clock, you naughty boy. It’s
so nonsensical! ... don't do it [go to work]! ... why should
you?" (608). Dora cannot manage the servants, and, while she
does finally take possession of those symbolically important
keys, they are a toy to her, "the whole bunch in a little
basket, tied to her slender waist," though David "seldom found
that the places to which they belonged were locked, or that
they were of any use except as a plaything for Jip" (715).
But the most explicit relation between failed domesticity and
fallenness is in the character of Annie Strong. The narrative
suspects Annie of infidelity, a suspicion which flourishes
because she cannot safeguard her home or her husband's
resources from outside intruders. To complicate matters, it

170
is her family that intrudes upon the domestic scene. That
Annie specifically fails as a domestic manager but is
implicated as an adulteress explicates the relation between
failed domestic women and fallen women.
Clara, Dora, and, to a lesser extent, Annie, are thus
like Emily. All are undomesticated, all are implicated in an
uncontained sexuality, and all are unable to perform the work
appropriate to their stations. But it is not just that the
failed domestic woman disrupts home and happiness. It is also
that, like the fallen woman, she is contagious. The woman who
cannot manage her house, which entails containing desire, is
a contagion. David tells Dora: "My love ... it is very
painful to me to think that our want of system and management,
involves not only ourselves (which we have got used to), but
other people as well" (760). He says that:
There is a contagion in us. We infect everyone
about us. ... It is not merely ... that we lose
money and comfort, and even tempers sometimes, by
not learning to be more careful; but that we incur
the serious responsibility of spoiling everyone who
comes into our service, or has any dealings with
us. I begin to be afraid that the fault is not
entirely on one side, but that these people all
turn out ill because we don't turn out very well
ourselves. (761)
The middle-class's supervision and regulation keeps the
working-class, like recalcitrant children, good and happy. If
the middle-class fails in its supervisory role, the working-
class will be shiftless, lazy, rebellious and uncontrolled.
The domestic woman, class manager par excellence, is thus
charged with maintaining social order both within her house,

171
and, by extension, within the country. Her failure marks the
decline of the domestic house, the decline of Britain, and of
the English race. This discourse is marked by the rhetoric of
duty. David says that:
Unless we learn to do our duty to those whom we
employ, they will never learn to do their duty to
us. I am afraid we present opportunities to people
to do wrong, that never ought to be presented.
Even if we were as lax as we are, in all our
arrangements, by choice—which we are not—even if
we liked it, and found it agreeable to be so—which
we don't—I am persuaded we should have no right to
go on in this way. We are positively corrupting
people. We are bound to think of that. (762)
The failed domestic woman ruins both servants and children and
thus jeopardizes proper order and good government. As such,
she is a fallen woman. Her fall is into the unbounded, the
uncontained, the unregulated, all of which are indicators of
an uncontrollable materiality always associated with the
excessive woman's body. The domestic woman is "that pervading
influence which sanctifies while it enhances" the home; who
regulates the home, husband, and children (474). Dora is not
a companionate wife. David mourns this lack, thinking: "It
would have been better for me if my wife could have helped me
more, and shared the many thoughts in which I had no partner;
and that this might have been; I knew" (765).
Dora, then, is no more an appropriate object of desire
for David than is Emily. As with Emily, Tess, Ruth, Hetty,
Esther and Martha, Dora must realize her sins and embrace her
penance for them. She tells David:

172
I was such a silly little creature! I am afraid it
would have been better, if we had only loved each
other as a boy and girl, and forgotten it. I have
begun to think I was not fit to be a wife. ... I
was very happy, very. But, as years went on, my
dear boy would have wearied of his child-wife. She
would have been less and less a companion for him.
He would have been more and more sensible of what
was wanting in his home. She wouldn't have
improved. It is better as it is. (837)
Like Tess, Dora accepts her death as necessary for her
husband's happiness and bequeaths to him another, appropriate,
asexual wife. Before she dies, Dora tells Agnes, the model of
the angel in the house, that if David takes another wife it
should be her. The ideal domestic woman thus assumes her
rightful place as companionate wife to the middle-class male.
The fallen woman, then, whether working or middle class,
ruins the home, economy, domestic and international
government. Emily's desire for Steerforth instead of Ham
ruins both Ham's life and Steerforth's. But the working-class
fallen woman poses in particular the threat of "domestic
degeneracy," which McClintock argues was "widely used to
mediate the manifold contradictions in imperial hierarchy."
Prostitutes, domestic workers, the working class—all were
figured, along with the Irish and Jews, as "white negroes"
(53). They posed the threat of racial encroachment and
degeneracy. From the middle-class point of view, Emily is a
"designing enemy" (741), a "piece of pollution, picked up from
the water-side, to be made much of for an hour, and then
tossed back to her original place!"(788) . Rosa calls her and
her uncle "a depraved, worthless set" and would like to have

173
Emily "whipped!" (532). The extent to which the middle class
can perceive the working-class woman as a commodity is clear
when Rosa tells Emily: "You were a part of the trade of your
home, and were bought and sold like any other vendible thing
your people dealt in" (788).
Configured as racially regressive, there is no more
logical place for the fallen figures of the novel than the
colonies. Indeed, emigration is celebrated as the salvation
for Emily, Martha, Peggotty, Mrs. Gummidge, and the Micawbers.
In Australia, Martha marries and becomes a respectable wife
and mother. Emily redeems herself with her work. In
Peggotty's words, she is:
Fond of going any distance fur to teach a child, or
fur to tend a sick person, or fur to do some
kindness tow'rds a young girl's wedding (and she's
done a many, but has never seen one); fondly loving
of her uncle; patient; liked by young and old; sowt
out by all that has any trouble. That's Emily!
(942)
The Micawbers, emblems of financial and sexual over-spending,
rise to the governing ranks: Mr. Micawber becomes a
magistrate. In the end, Britain's residue is sent to the
colonies, where, as McClintock argues, an imperial narrative
figures a regeneration of the "family of man":
In the public and political debates of the late
nineteenth century, the swelling superfluity of
women and men was figured as a malady and contagion
in the national body politic that could be
countered by leeching off the bad fluid and
depositing it in the colonies. At the same time,
much of this interest in colonial emigration was
figured within the image of the family. Not a few
of the "riddlings of society" ... came from the
depressed gentry and the upper classes. (237)

174
Narratives of the fall, then, restructured working-class
sexual and family relations, discursively constructed
appropriate workers for the new worker-state, effaced the
exploitation of class labor upon which middle-class
domesticity relied, and legitimated a broad range of colonial
and imperial practices. The violence these narratives do to
working-class women becomes clear when we juxtapose working-
class women's self-representations against middle-class
representations of them.

CHAPTER 5
THE OTHER SIDE: WORKING-CLASS WOMEN TELL THEIR STORIES
Reading Working-Class Women's Autobiographies
Working-class women's autobiographical texts tell stories
that differ greatly from the literary and institutional
representations of them. I approach these self-
representations as historical documents to the extent that
they are generated in a specific historical time under
specific circumstances and within specific ideological
conditions. However, I am not looking to these texts for an
historical "truth" or a transparent "subject." I am
interested, instead, in the contrast between the ways in which
these women represent their lives and the ways in which
novels, hospital and asylum reports, police and medical
reports, religious and charitable tracts, represent them.
Butler argues that, "within Lacanian psychoanalysis . . . the
law repeats itself precisely because it has failed to achieve
a full and final subjection. ... Indeed, if a full
subjection—and subjectivation—were possible, repetition
would become superfluous" ("Lana's Imitations" 12). If
repetition marks a failure, then the literary and
institutional repetition of the narrative of the fallen woman
suggests that working-class women posed an unresolvable
175

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problem for the Victorian economy. The "problem" these women
posed was defined somewhat differently from institution to
institution: the medical problem of physical contagion; the
moral problem of spiritual corruption; the economic problem of
un- and under-employment; the social problem of motherhood and
child-care. If the repetition of institutional and fictional
narratives defining and punishing fallenness are indications
of working-class women's on-going resistance to efforts to
domesticate them, then precisely how did these domesticating
efforts affect working-class women's lives and what forms did
their resistance take?
My analysis is indebted to both Leigh Gilmore and Regenia
Gagnier's theoretical work with subjectivity and
autobiography. In Autobiographies: A Feminist Theory of
Women's Self-Representation, Gilmore defines her project as an
analysis of "how women use self-representation and its
constitutive possibilities for agency and subjectivity to
become no longer primarily subject to exchange but subjects
who exchange the position of object for the subjectivity of
self-representational agency" (12). I too am interested in
the power of agency working-class women's autobiographies
reveal. Gilmore, however, ignores the difference class makes
to gender. As McClintock says, "no social category exists in
privileged isolation; each comes into being in social relation
to other categories, if in uneven and contradictory ways" (9).
Gagnier, on the other hand, is sensitive to the difference

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between working-class self-representations and middle-class
representations of them, but her analysis focuses primarily on
differences in autobiographical form and constructions of
subjectivity.57 In particular, Gagnier is interested in a
taxonomy of genres of autobiography and an analysis of the
intentions and effects of writing on working-class
subjectivity. I am more interested in textual evidence of
specific moments of resistance to and subversion of dominant
ideologies of gender and class. Beginning with the question
McClintock poses in Imperial Leather: "What kind of agency is
possible in situations of extreme social inequality" (140), I
Gagnier does not sufficiently differentiate between the
kinds of work performed by middle- and working-class women.
She argues that the most fundamental difference between
middle- and working-class autobiographies is the structuring
effect of "gender dimorphism," in which middle-class boys
"learned 'independence' through extrusion from mothers and
nannies," while "middle-class girls learned to be dependent
upon and obedient to husbands" (44). This reading does not
acknowledge middle-class women's domestic work as manager
(Langland), the relationship between this work and the changed
urban industrial economy and imperialism (Armstrong,
McClintock), or the complex relations between middle-class
ideologies of gender and the labor required of working-class
women. While I agree that working-class women's
autobiographies construct gender differently than do middle-
class women's, it is too reductive to see in working-class
women's autobiographies a "gender inversion" in which working-
class men learn to be "matronized" (44). Many of the working-
class women’s texts I've analyzed acknowledge as a component
of heterosexual relations the violence inherent in ideologies
of gender. Gender oppression features as prominently in these
narratives as does class oppression. Saxby's narrative
details domestic violence; Smith's narrative describes
childhood sexual abuse; and Cullwick's diaries chronicle a
sado-masochistic fantasy structure. It is thus extremely
important that we not overlook these women's strategies for
negotiating a subject position through the combined violence
of class and gender hierarchies.

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ask how women existing in radically unequal power relations
exercise their agency: how do they negotiate, resist,
transform, subvert the dominant forms of power under which
they exist?
These differences not withstanding, Gagnier's
identification of the hegemony of "master, or broad cultural,
'narratives' that determine how people see their lives" is
useful to my analysis of working-class women's resistances to
the oppressive conditions in which they exist (6). She
articulates the importance of recognizing within
autobiographical narratives "participatory modes of value and
consensus and the antagonistic modes of resistance,
domination, and appropriation" (41). As she says, "all
autobiographical 'moves' ... display the features of the two
contexts, as cultural products in circulation with other
cultural products . . . and as articulations of participatory
and antagonistic social relations" (40). In this context, we
must, as Gilmore says, examine "the level of each text's
engagement with the available discourses of truth and identity
and the ways in which self-representation is constitutively
shaped though proximity to those discourses' definition of
authority" (12-13).
While I am interested in working-class women's agency, I
believe it is important to recognize the severe limitations
imposed on their ability to exercise agency. As Julia
Swindells says, we cannot simply "[liberate] our sisters from

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history—either by finding 'authentic' voices where these
cannot exist, or by deciding, in our eagerness to liberate
their texts from silence, that these sisters led liberated
lives" (24). I want to resist a reductive binarisra which sees
these women as either oppressed or liberated. Understanding,
as Foucault says, that "power is co-extensive with the social
body" and that the interconnectedness of relations of power
with "other kinds of relations (production, kinship, family,
sexuality)" yields "a multiform production of relations of
domination which are partially susceptible of integration into
overall strategies," I look to these women's texts for the
strategies they employed in their multiple resistances to
power (Power/Knowledge 142). Specifically, I analyze working-
class women's narratives for the ways in which dominant
discourses of fallenness impacted their lives and the ways in
which these women internalized, resisted, and struggled with
these discourses. A close reading of working-class women's
autobiographies reveals the impossibility of separating
discourses of fallenness from the everyday lives of working-
class women: narratives of fallenness legitimated wide-ranging
coercive measures to police and domesticate working-class
women, and, in one way or another, each of the women whose
texts I analyze here defines herself against the tropes of
prostitution prominent in the rhetoric of the 1800's.58
58Since I am particularly interested in reading narratives
of fallenness in terms of their use in domesticating working-
class women, I have excluded from this analysis several

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The Victorian period is generally acknowledged to begin
in 1830, the same year the Liverpool and Manchester Railway
opened and two years before the middle-class backed Reform
Bill of 1832 extended the right to vote to all males owning
property worth SflO or more a year in rent. The period closes
in 1901 with the death of Queen Victoria. But England was
experiencing the economic upheaval of industrialization in the
decades preceding the 1830's Reform Parliament, and the
decades following Queen Victoria's death continued to play out
the effects of Victorian legal and social reforms. Victorian
efforts to domesticate working-class women were closely tied
to both the consolidation of a middle-class capitalist power
and to already entrenched religious reform and rescue
discourses. Since I am interested in examining the effects of
narratives of fallenness on working-class women's lives as
well as analyzing their resistances to domesticating projects,
I have chosen (from the few working-class women's self¬
representations available) a range of texts which span the
important texts which deserve mention. Harriet Wilson, one of
the best known courtesans of the late eighteenth and early
nineteenth centuries, published memoirs which provide a
sometimes scathing account of her relationships with many of
Britain's nobility. Wilson's upper-class liaisons, however,
afforded her an upper-class lifestyle, and, interesting as the
memoirs are, they do not directly bear on my analysis of the
intersection of the discourses of prostitution and working-
class women. There are also two important texts by American
prostitutes, Nell Kimball and Mamie Pinzer, that are extremely
interesting. Kimball's text details both the life of
prostitution and her exercise of power through the
considerable fortune she amassed as a madam; Mamie's details
the complex power relations between a working-class "fallen"
woman and an upper-class woman who "rescues" her.

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beginning, middle, and end of the Victorian period. I begin
with a pre-Victorian text, Mary Saxby's Memoirs of a Female
Vagrant, which exposes both the differences between pre-
Victorian and Victorian class and gender constructions and the
framework out of which Victorian domesticating efforts grew.
Next to this, I juxtapose Emma Smith’s A Cornish Waif's Story.
Published in 1954 about her childhood in late Victorian
England, Smith's autobiography documents the success of
Victorian legal, medical, and discursive efforts to
domesticate working-class women. While Saxby's text looks
forward to the Victorian domesticating project, Smith's looks
back on it. Hannah Cullwick's Diaries, written between 1854
and 1873, spans the period of time in which state measures to
regulate women's work, their use of public space, and their
sexuality were unfolding. Positioned in the middle of the
Victorian period, Cullwick's diaries look neither forward nor
back, but show her ongoing negotiation of a world in which her
class and gender definitions were being transformed. All of
these texts reveal a complex relation to the power structures
within which their authors lived and labored. Each of these
women carved for herself a particular access to power within
the possibilities open to her, an access to power that
afforded a degree of freedom and autonomy not recognized in
popular representations of fallen women.
Only two of the women—Saxby and Smith—technically fall
into the category that would be recognized as "fallen."

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Cullwick existed in the marginal and therefore suspect space
of an unmarried working-class women. Saxby's narrative,
published as part of a religious discourse advocating the
reformation of sinners, is closely linked to confessional
narratives. Her conversion narrative anticipates Victorian
reform practices. While on one lever her text participates in
the "confession" of sexual guilt, it also reveals a pride in
and an on-going identification of herself as a "rebel,"
factors which subvert the genre of the confessional. This
pride in her self-defined "rebel" identity points to her
appropriation of religious discourses to resist domestication.
Saxby was what Dickens described in David Copperfield as a
"tramper," the very sort of women Police Constable Anniss says
"is the most difficult class we have, because they get about
in the fields and lanes at night ... [and] do a great deal of
damage. ... They travel about as tinkers, &c., who do anything
but work, and do a great deal of damage in communicating
disease" (RCI 1871 22).
At the other end of the century, Smith's autobiography
details the effects of Victorian tropes of fallenness on
working-class women's lives and is thus an important document
against which to read these tropes. She was raised in a
penitentiary, and, though she abhorred sex and was abstinent
until her marriage, she describes her entire life as shadowed
by the assumption that she had been a prostitute. Smith's
narrative is an open indictment of middle-class narratives of

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fallenness. Her autobiography shatters the taboo of silence
prohibiting her from speaking of her past in a penitentiary:
far from being the confession of her guilt, Smith's text is a
righteous proclamation of her innocence.
In between these, Cullwick's diaries afford a glimpse of
the changing Victorian world. Cullwick wrote her diaries on
the demand of her upper-class friend and eventual husband,
Arthur Munby. Though her diaries are, in one sense, a
confessional narrative that represent her manual labor for
Munby's voyeuristic pleasure, in another sense, they secure
her relationship to an upper-class man and thus enable a
radical class transgression. By choosing to fulfill Munby's
demand to write, Cullwick's confessional narrative works both
as a strategy for securing her interests and as a performance
for their relation. Cullwick's relation to Munby enabled her
to avoid the physical, emotional, and psychological costs of
working-class marriage and child-rearing and to save a
substantial amount of money and live as an independent retired
woman at a relatively early age. Like Saxby's, Cullwick’s
diaries are filled with the rhetoric of humble submission, but
they also regularly point to her pride and indicate the anger
she experiences from her subordinate position.
In marked contrast to their representations in novels and
institutional discourses, the working-class women's narratives
I examine challenge the legitimacy of middle-class
representations of them. The lives they describe are very

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different than literary representations in which
sympathetically written fallen women are merely victims
always about to throw themselves into the polluted rivers from
which they seem to have arisen: these women's texts reveal the
strategies with which they resisted institutions of power, the
challenges they posed to these institutions, and the power
they were able to exercise within their circumstances. In
stark contrast to middle-class texts in which working-class
women can tell only the story of their sexual guilt, each of
these authors accesses the word and tells her story. These
stories—stories of their independence, their resourcefulness,
their desire, their ambition, discontent, anger—are an
important indication of the threat underlying middle-class and
institutional narratives of the fall and its punishment. They
are a confrontation to the existing structures of power and
indicate the threat working-class women posed to the stability
of that power. In one way or another, these are all
undomesticable women.
Mary Saxby's Memoirs of a Female Vagrant
Saxby's Memoirs, published through the Methodist
association with which she was involved, were intended as an
exemplary conversion narrative. According to one of the many
editorial comments to Saxby's text, the facts of her life
"afford considerable encouragement to benevolent efforts for
the temporal and spiritual recovery of the most profligate

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poor; and may teach the vilest characters among them not to
abandon themselves to despair" (21). Themes of "temporal and
spiritual recovery" featured largely in religious discourses
which saw "the vagrant classes of the British poor" as
"inferior in civilization to the Bedouin Arabs" (19). But a
close reading of Saxby's Memoirs shows that, far from
domesticating her, religious discourse enabled her to resist
domestication as a working-class wife and mother confined to
the sphere of the home. Religious discourse offers Saxby a
positive ego-identity. Marked by a pride in her independence
and ability to resist being "controlled," Saxby's
"confession," even allowing for her self-prostrating religious
rhetoric, reads rather more like a triumph than a repentance.
Interestingly, her "rebel" self-representation structures her
identity both before and after her religious conversion. She
is just as much a rebel in her adult proselytizing as she was
in her childhood "escapes" or her adolescent wanderings. She
explains her childhood shuffling from one relative to another
as a conseguence of her "own perverse temper; which, because
I had no parent, scorned to be under the controul of any of my
friends, even at that early period" (1-2). We read her pride,
too, in her disclosure that, despite "the many years that
[she] wondered alone without a guide or a teacher," she
retains the knowledge she received during her brief period at
school (2). Saxby's "rebel" identity not only allows her to
escape her father's early abuse, it also makes her the

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privileged beneficiary of God's love and salvation. She
praises the "patience and forbearance" of the God that strove
with "such a daring rebel" (27). Saxby acknowledges that she
was "full of pride and self" (60), and her belief in divine
guidance is an extension of her early identity as a proud
woman under nobody's control. Saxby's pride at being chosen
for salvation is thus a logical extension of identity
constructions in place long before her conversion.
Born in 1738, Saxby begins life as an abandoned child;
her mother dies, her father leaves, and she is passed from
relative to relative. Both her childhood and her adult life
are characterized by a rejection of confinement and a desire
for "freedom." Saxby begins a series of what she defines as
"escapes" at the age of ten, shortly after her father returns
and takes over her care. She recalls an episode when, wanting
to see a fireworks display, she "escaped" to St. James's Park.
Saxby recalls her punishment for this "excursion":
Now my poor, dear, grieved parent, thought he would
effectually humble my proud spirit. He shut me up
in a lower room which faced the street, and chained
me to the bed-post: the children I used to play
with were permitted to look through the window, and
mock and scoff at me; and I think that, for three
days, I had no other food than a few dry crusts,
soaked in some pot-liguor. (5)
Though Saxby recounts numerous such instances of horrifying
abuse, her narrative emphasizes, not the abuse, but her escape
from it. Such tactics, according to Saxby: "Instead of
humbling [her] proud, perverse spirit ... [he] exasperated me
to the highest degree" (5). Her father's abuse "sensibly

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touched [her] proud nature; and [she] was determined, at all
events, upon a final escape" (6).
Saxby does indeed "escape," and thus begins an itinerant
life marked by intervals of hunger, deprivation, suffering—
and periods of freedom, pleasure, and plenty. She takes up
with one person after another, making her living variously by
begging, singing, stealing, trading, and performing migrant
farm work. In one of her earliest road companionships, she
convinces the daughter of a woman who has taken her in to join
her on the road:
Her youngest daughter was about my age, and with
her I soon contracted an intimacy. ... We agreed
to go about together, singing ballads; and to this
end we determined on separating from her mother.
... Being then wholly left to ourselves, without
anyone to controul us, we ran wherever our blind
fancy led us, into all sorts of company, singing in
alehouses, at feasts and fairs, for a few pence and
a little drink. (9)
Even at such a young age, Saxby prefers to "go about singing
ballads" than be confined to a home. Her narrative differs
significantly from literary representations of migrant women.
In the first place, while she does in fact describe some of
the conditions that became the melodramatic hallmarks of
itinerant life—hunger, deprivation, suffering—the narrative
also reveals a pleasure in unrestrained mobility and
unstructured living. During one of her travels, she meets
with a tribe of gypsies, "and one, in particular, was an
exceeding good dancer." He "fascinated" her so much that she
"needed little entreaty to go with them to their camp, which

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contained several tents, with men, women, and children" (9).
She lived with this tribe for over a year, and recalls that
she "liked it very well" (10). The first sexual relationship
she describes is with a man from this tribe, who, she says,
"was the same young man that had allured me by his dancing.
... I loved him too well; and as he promised me marriage,
consented to co-habit with him; in which sinful state I
continued more than year" (10). Her narration shows her not
only a willing but a desiring partner in this affair, and, at
the time, her sexual union carries no stigma for her. Though
by the time she writes her memoirs Saxby accepts her early
informal sexual liaisons as "sinful," her narrative
nevertheless insists that at the time she saw "no wrong" in
her actions. Significantly, the religious discourse through
which she writes became highly important to Victorian reform
and rescue narratives. We can thus see Saxby's narrative as
a precursor to Victorian narratives of the fall which
represent the suffering and discursively enact a punishment of
"fallen" women. But Saxby's narrative also belies the
Victorian narratives of seduction it foreshadows. Victorian
narratives feature women who are coerced into sex, suffer
miserably for their sin, and die slow and painful deaths from
humiliation, scorn, and shame. Not only does Saxby suffer no
such consequence from her sexual unions, she has an
illegitimate child by one man (she eventually marries the
father of this child) and later cohabits with another, whom

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she refuses to marry "on account of my poor child, whom I
wished never to have a stepfather" (19). Though her third
lover insists that they marry, she refuses "lest he should use
the child ill afterwards; and as it was not then customary for
travelers to marry, [she] saw no evil in it" (20).
Saxby practices serial monogamy, which was customary for
women of her class.59 Neither her series of informal sexual
liaisons nor her illegitimate children pose a problem for her,
her future husband, or her social circle. Her heterosexual
relations are only one aspect of a complex identity structure
which involves making money, traveling, rearing children, and,
later, preaching. Her marital relation, far from being her
primary mode of self-definition, is, next to her work, her
children, and her religion, a relatively minor aspect of her
identity structure. In fact, Saxby does not name her eventual
husband—her second lover and father of the illegitimate child
on whose behalf she refuses marriage to her third lover—until
she narrates their imminent marriage. Up to this point, she
refers to him as "the man from Kent."
In many ways, Saxby's narrative (which resembles
eighteenth-century narratives such as Defoe’s Moll Flanders)
59In fact, laments about informal sexual arrangements
among the working-class permeate middle-class texts throughout
the Victorian period. Social and charitable investigators
distributing poor relief, police and public health examiners
entering working-class homes, and religious organizations
mobilizing conversion and reform efforts, all discuss the
working-class's general disregard for legal marriage. We see
similar complaints in modern discourses attributing the
deterioration of the "family" to working-class immorality.

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reminds us that the Victorian project of domesticating
working-class women cut them off from outside interests,
friends, and activities and left them isolated in their homes
and at the mercy of their husbands' tempers. Functionally,
this abandoned many women to the domestic violence inherent to
gender hierarchies. In fact, Saxby's marital relationship is
filled with the same violence and abuse that characterized her
early life. She recalls an episode when, before they were
married, John Saxby retrieved her from a second period of
cohabitation with her gypsy lover, who, she says, was keeping
her a virtual prisoner: "The man whom I had met with in Kent,
finding out my situation, came and demanded me; ... challenged
him to fight for me, conquered him, and took me away in
triumph" (17). Far from being grateful, Saxby sees this as
exchanging "one state of slavery for another" (17). She
becomes pregnant, shortly after which John Saxby "goes for a
soldier" and his mother and sister desert her. She takes up
with another man, but John Saxby returns, finds her, and makes
her promise to wait for him or he will kill her. Eventually
she and John Saxby form a permanent union, but, as they are
often in "places where the clergy refused to marry travelers;
and at other times, we had not money enough to discharge the
expense" (22), it is quite some time before this union is
legalized. Eventually, Saxby insists on marriage, and, on
Jan. 3, 1772, she and John Saxby were married.

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Given the violence to which women were frequently
subjected, Saxby had many reasons for preferring informal
heterosexual arrangements to marriage. She did not perceive
herself as violating sexual mores until after her conversion
process began. In fact, she perceives herself as a "virtuous"
woman. She recalls that: "Many a time, have I narrowly
escaped being entirely ruined by wicked men: but as the Lord
always gave me a strong aversion to the very name of a common
prostitute, so he, and he alone, kept me from becoming one,
even so early" (7). While she clearly identifies the "common
prostitute" as a being with less agency than herself, even
then the law made no distinction between Saxby's life style
and prostitution. To the middle-class and its institutions
(church, police, hospital, courts), her informal sexual
unions and itinerant life-style mark her as a fallen women.
Once, after befriending and taking lodging with a woman the
police identified as a common prostitute, Saxby was arrested
for prostitution and served six weeks in Bridewell. Saxby
writes that:
Being in her company, and having been seen with her
in the market, the constable came in the night,
obliged us to leave our bed, and secured us till
morning; when we were taken before a justice, who
committed us both to Bridewell, ordering us both to
be repeatedly whipped. (16)
This pre-Victorian practice of arresting and confining
women suspected of prostitution facilitated the passage of the
Contagious Diseases Acts and the compulsory medical exam of
women suspected of prostitution. Similarly, the religious and

192
reform discourse so important to both the proponents and
opponents of state regulation of women's sexuality was in
place long before the Victorian period. Indeed, Saxby was a
target for moral reform from several guarters. The jail
keeper at Bridewell and the midwife who delivered her twins
presented her with religious tracts and tried to "reform" her.
Over the course of several years, Saxby periodically embraces
and then rejects religious discourses. During periods of
hardship she considers religious conversion, but, after the
immediate peril is over, "[she] returned to [her] former
courses" (16). She refers to herself as a "traveler," and
describes her life: "Our custom was, to go round the
neighbouring villages, to sell our goods, and return at night"
(25). While it was certainly a hard life, it seems that Saxby
was not much inclined to the more settled life of domesticity
that she at times says she desires. After her twins die in a
fire, she is so upset that she has what she refers to as "a
disorder in [her] head, that made [her] almost distracted,"
and "was resolved to have a home for [her] children; and,
through mercy, [she] was enabled to fulfill this purpose."
This domestic interlude lasts only a short time, though, for,
as she says, "my vows and promises, nevertheless, were soon
forgotten, when my trouble wore off ... I returned to my
former evil practices, as the dog to his vomit. To obscene
jests, filthy ribaldry, and profane swearing, I was grossly
addicted" (27).

193
Interestingly, Saxby fully attaches to Methodism only
after she experiences herself as oppressively confined to her
husband's abuse and overwhelmed with the difficulties of
working-class motherhood. In this sense, religious discourse
offers her another kind of escape from the harsh conditions of
her life. She eventually attaches to the Wesleyans, whose
"discourses were leveled to [her] capacity" (33) and becomes
a religious proselyte. Gagnier describes Saxby's text as a
"true conversion narrative" and argues that:
By the nineteenth century, conversion narrative
worked in two contradictory ways. First, it
reproduced the official ideology of the middle-
class religious societies that published—and
occasionally forged—such tracts; hardship in this
life was necessary for redemption in the next.
Second, it permitted the dream of a pilgrim's
progress to people whose life-events were doomed to
hopeless repetition—a dream that empowered the
religious radicals, typically Methodist, whose
ideology generated working-class movements. (152)
To the extent that a religious life of preaching afforded a
refuge from the responsibilities of domesticity and seclusion
with an undesirable mate, religious discourse was itself an
empowering tool for many women. Saxby's responsibilities as
mother and wife to an abusive husband would have given her
ample cause to desire escape, that theme so prevalent from her
childhood. When she is pregnant with her first set of twins,
her husband "beat[s] [her]," "kick[s] [her] down," and
"trie[s] to choke [her]"(23). Her labor for her next set of
twins is so hard that she almost dies. It is after this
delivery that she completes her religious conversion. From

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this point on, her religious enthusiasm becomes the
preoccupation of her life, and she "could not forbear telling
all that were about [her], or came to see [her], what God had
done for [her] soul" (35). Saxby's descriptions suggest
that she uses her religious discourse as a means of escaping
domestication. She characterizes her "journeys" preaching as
"escapes" from the persecution she receives at home: "And oh,
how glad was I, when out on a journey, from under the eye of
my poor husband, that I might attend on the Word without
distraction or opposition" (33). Her religious zeal and her
disregard for the responsibilities of husband, children, and
home "seemed only to stir up enemies from every quarter; ...
[her] own family reported, that [she] was actually mad" (35).
Faced with Saxby's total withdrawal from family
responsibilities, her family calls the doctor, who "ordered
all [her] books to be taken away" (37). After the death of
one of her children, Saxby, distracted to the point of wishing
her own death, remains confined to her room. She reports
that her husband "was all this time usually drinking and
swearing at an alehouse; and when he did come to me, which was
but seldom, it was only to upbraid and threaten to throw me
out of the window, if I did not get up and do for my family"
(37). Given this set of domestic circumstances, evangelism
offers her freedom from an oppressive domestic situation.
Saxby's Memoirs provide an important glimpse into the
conditions of life for the poorest of working-class women.

195
They also reveal the conditions out of which the Victorian
domesticating project grew. But, perhaps most importantly,
they point to some of the key elements of the oppressive class
and gender hierarchies working-class women negotiated, and
chronicle the means by which Saxby resisted these oppressions
and subverted religious discourse. Her confessional
narrative, far from being merely the chronicling of her guilt,
is in fact the shouting of her triumph. Saxby lived and wrote
before the Methodists banned women's preaching and before the
reform discourse (which enabled Saxby to avoid domestication)
had helped to fully form Victorian legal and medical
discourses and practices domesticating working-class women.
Living and writing at the other end of the spectrum about her
childhood in late-Victorian London, Smith's A Cornish Waif's
Story documents the largely successful domestication of
working-class women.
Emma Smith's A Cornish Waif's Story
Emma Smith's autobiography, A Cornish Waif's Story,
narrates the life of an illegitimate child born in a Victorian
workhouse and shuffled between relatives and the workhouse
until she was old enough to be "put out to work." Smith
passed her earliest years between the workhouse in Redruth
and, when her mother sent them money and they could afford to
keep her, her grandparents' house. She was eventually sent
to live with itinerant beggars, the Pratts, with whom she

196
traveled, singing and begging. Except for a brief interval at
the Salvation Army Home and an unsuccessful attempt to live
with a rag-and-bone merchant, Smith remained with the Pratts
until she was twelve years old and finally ran away for good.
Smith recalls the horrors of life with the Pratts: Mr. Pratt
molested her; she was always physically and emotionally
exhausted; she suffered emotionally from having been abandoned
by her mother. But her story is particularly important for
the detailed information it provides about life in a
penitentiary. The text also clearly articulates reform
narratives’ ideological work of domesticating working-class
women.
Gagnier describes Smith's life as "a sequence of non¬
correspondence to middle-class norms" (49). Hers is "a
'hysterical' narrative indicating her nonadjustment to married
life and maternity. She is as unwilling a wife as a waif"
(50). While this is certainly true, it is equally true that,
by the time she publishes her autobiography in 1954, Smith has
thoroughly internalized the Victorian ideal of domesticity.
She may be both an "unwilling wife and waif," but she
desperately craves the ideal of a domestic home with a
guardian angel mother, neither of which were available to her.
The narrative reiterates Smith's suffering from this lack and
her sense of loss, both of which she blames on her mother's
failure: her mother bears two illegitimate children, and then
marries a man who does not want to be a father to another

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man's children. But Smith's mother's tale seems to be more or
less typical of Victorian working-class women. She has
children by a man she expects to marry. He goes to war, she
believes he is killed, she meets and marries somebody else.
Because Smith clings so tightly to the ideal of a happy
childhood in a nurturing family, and suffers so greatly from
her experience of a ruptured family structure, we must ask if
she does not suffer, in part at least, from the success of
discourses disseminating bourgeois ideals of mother and family
into working-class culture. Gagnier argues that there is an
especially high cost of "bourgeois—especially familial or
gendered—ideology to women and men who were not permitted
bourgeois lives" (45). The cost to Smith of internalizing
middle-class ideology was indeed high. The domestic ideal is
not only the script through which she interprets her own life,
it is the script through which she reads her mother as a
failed domestic woman and the source of all of her childhood
suffering. Smith writes that "most of the blame for what
[she] suffered and endured lies at" her mother's door. (13)
Next to Smith's unrelenting condemnation of her mother,
her equally unrestrained adoration of her grandfather seems
skewed. He "figures in many of [her] happiest memories of
[her] early days" (20). Her grandfather was blind, had no
means of subsistence, and was proud of having sired and
baptized twenty-three children. While her grandfather could
not support the children he helped to bring into the world,

198
his children were all expected to contribute to their
subsistence. Smith's mother began working in the tin mines
almost as soon as she could walk; all of the children helped
to support a household ruled by extreme poverty. While Smith
never reproaches her grandfather for his inability to care for
his children, she blames her mother for having two
illegitimate children before marrying a man who did not want
to be burdened with children that were not his own. Smith's
angry blame of her mother and her loving protectiveness
towards her grandfather expose both the pervasiveness of the
ideology of domesticity and its punitive quality: Smith has
thoroughly internalized the belief that a good woman bears
only the legitimate children of a lawful husband, and that the
bad woman is fully responsible for children's suffering and
domestic chaos. Smith does not evenly distribute the blame
for the harsh conditions of her life—it is her mother's
fault.60
After running away several times, Smith was eventually
sent to Mrs. Butler for placement in a penitentiary. Smith
recalls:
c“Smith's unequivocal condemnation of her mother reflects
the emergence of Victorian psychological and social discourses
constructing mother-child relations. Her text reveals a
familiarity with these discourses—her writing was prompted by
a "friend who happens to be a sociologist" (13). What's more,
the uneven distribution of blame which we can recognize in
Smith's text illuminates for us the ideological snares such
discourses still pose for us today. We have not yet moved
beyond configurations of mothers as fully responsible for all
of the ills from which their children might suffer.

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I had always stood in great awe of the little
black-veiled lady, and now I recalled how often I
had heard of girls, "bad girls," from our street,
who had suddenly disappeared. I had never known
these young women, but a neighbor would drop in and
tell Mrs. Pratt about them. A girl would just
vanish, then it would be reported that Miss Butler
had sent her to a home for bad girls. (114)
Smith, now at the mercy of religious and charitable reformers,
must be defined as a "fallen" woman in order to be "rescued."
Miss Butler's first move to "help" her is thus to take her to
a doctor for a medical certificate verifying that she has been
"ruined" by a man. The doctor refuses to examine Smith, who
was dirty, neglected, and had recently suffered from chicken
pox. Nevertheless, he issued a certificate verifying that she
had had intercourse, the criterion for her "ruin." In order
to be eligible for "help" from state, religious, or charitable
institutions, Smith had to be named as "fallen," a naming
which conflates all unmarried non-virgins, including
"prostitutes" and victims of "seduction" or rape. She
suffered the consequences of this definition for the rest of
her life. But she was only twelve years old when Ms. Butler
"rescued" her. According to her narrative, the doctor did not
perform a medical examination. She told nobody of Pratt's
sexual abuse. On what basis, then, did Ms. Butler conclude
that she was "ruined"? The circumstances Smith narrates
suggest that the definition of fallenness rested as much on
poverty and social marginality as it did on sexual activity.
In this sense, redemption meant being restored to an
appropriate social position, which, for working-class women,

200
invariably meant service in middle-class homes and
institutions.
Shortly after this, Smith was sent to a convent
penitentiary in Bramshot. Before being sent to the
penitentiary, Miss Butler tells her that she must "be very
grateful for this chance ... for it is a beautiful home and
you will be taught many useful things. Why, some day, you
might even be a servant like Selina" (116). Smith wryly
comments that, "had Miss Butler said that some day "she "might
be a duchess she could not have made it sound more ambitious."
Within the discourse of redemption, a servant's life is the
crowning achievement for a young woman of Smith's class. But,
practically, the twelve-year-old Smith realizes that:
After all, Selina was a lady, I thought. And if I
became like her, I should be very grand. Look how
she wore that little cap on the top of her head.
She made it stick up like that herself, for I had
seen her starch and iron it. Then that lively
white embroidered apron with the streamers at the
back! She never smiled or talked to me, certainly.
But that was, I supposed, because she was so
important. One of the few remarks Selina had made
to me was that once she herself had been "rescued"
by Miss Butler. ... On the whole, then, things
could have been worse. (116)
Smith enters the convent penitentiary, if not
enthusiastically, at least willingly. This, as she says,
affects the rest of her life, which she lives under the shadow
of being identified as a prostitute. She writes:
It was just taken for granted that I was a young
prostitute. Had I not run away from Pratt when I
did, I should almost certainly have become such a
one in time. It could almost be said, I think,
that I had left just in the nick of time. As it

201
was, I was no more a prostitute than Dickens'
Oliver Twist was a thief, if I may draw upon a
charter of fiction to illustrate what I mean. Yet
here I was placed in this category, and indirectly
it has affected my whole life. (118)
The necessity of naming Smith a "prostitute" before she could
be "rescued" suggests that to help a poor woman required
constructing her as a victim. But, in Smith's case, the very
ground upon which her victimization was constructed
exacerbated the real sexual abuse to which Pratt had subjected
her. As we have already seen, even narratives of seduction
rested upon earlier beliefs in woman's sexually threatening
body. Thus, to say that she had been "ruined" by a man held
her responsible for (and guilty of) sexual activity; assumed
that she was corrupted and could in turn corrupt others; and
imposed upon her the taboo of silence prohibiting her from
ever speaking of her past. To name Smith as "ruined"—which
implies "fallen," "prostitute," "corrupted"—consequently
misnames the sexual abuse Pratt subjected her to: it holds her
responsible for a "fall" she did not experience and prevents
her speaking about the sexual abuse she did experience.
Though Smith thoroughly internalizes the ideology of
domesticity, her narrative also subverts that ideology. Her
biography is, fundamentally, a violation of the taboo of
silence which organizes her life. Silence was the governing
theme of the penitentiary. For misconduct, inmates could "be
put into silence" (120); "They all undressed in dead silence"
(121); and "from the hour of compline to the hour after Mass

202
was celebrated the following morning, dead silence all
throughout the house was strictly observed" (125). Smith
recalls that: "The meals were silent, except for Sunday
teatime; and at Christmas, Easter and Whitsun, we were allowed
to talk at dinnertime" (127). But worse, even, then the
silence which organized their days, punctuated by strictly
regulated intervals of sociality, was the taboo of speaking of
one's past. For the sexually transgressive woman, the only
past to speak of is a past of sin and guilt, and to speak of
this past is seen as corrupting. Only a guilty woman has a
past, and the guilty woman must be prevented from
contaminating others by communicating the guilt of her past:
It was strictly forbidden to talk of one's past
life, so that to no one had I ever confided about
Pratt or my singing expeditions. Now that the time
had arrived for me to make my first confession, I
was weighed down with all these sordid memories. I
was innocent of any sin. I was sinned against, but
at that age I could not sort it all out. So I went
to the confessional, and still I held my tongue
about the biggest worry of all. I still did not
know how to explain what had happened. The fact
that I was never questioned about my past life by
my teacher, made it impossible for me to take her
into my confidence and ask her help. I was
burdened the whole time now with an awful sense of
guilt which made me feel older than my years. (130)
Smith does eventually make a full confession, and this
confession, like her autobiography, can be read as an
accusation against the imposition of silence and an indictment
against what she has suffered. The confession itself is less
an admission of her sin than a long pent-up naming of abuse.
In this sense, Smith's confession subverts the Christian

203
confessional—her confession breaks the silence of sexual
abuse. The belief in the sexual woman's contaminating guilt
founds the injunction against speaking, and Smith's text
clearly rejects the definition of her as guilty or
contaminating. She declares: "I was innocent of any sin. I
was sinned against." As such, her "confession," like her
autobiography, breaks silence and speaks, not her guilt, but
her innocence. And this text is clearly angry at the
injunction to silence and the guilt assigned to her. Smith
frankly accuses her teacher (to whom she is deeply attached)
of burdening her with "an awful sense of guilt" by making it
"impossible" for Smith to take her teacher into her
confidence (130). Smith's confession is thus a very different
genre than the confession of novels or institutional
documents. Her confession is an angry accusation, an
indictment, and an effort to hold the society that makes her
suffer responsible for its treatment of her.
This injunction to silence, her anger with and accusation
against it, extends long past her life in the penitentiary:
It was impressed upon me before I left that I was
never to talk about the Home or let anyone know
where I had come from. Now, indeed, my troubles
began . . . now here at last it was rubbed into me
that it was something to be very ashamed of that I
had been an inmate of the Home at Bramshot. It was
just as if a girl had been told that her school or
college was to be something which she could never
discuss among her friends, as it was a matter of
disgrace and shame that she had ever been there.
(146)

204
First, Smith's life before Bramshot was erased, and then her
life in Bramshot was erased, always to be hidden behind the
silent secrecy of what was made her shame. She attributes
many of the difficulties she had adjusting to life outside of
Bramshot to this injunction of silence under which she was
expected to live: "Looking back, I think I might have done
quite well at the vicarage had I not been worried with the
problem of having to keep silent about the very place and
people I most longed to discuss" (148). She is caught in the
impossible situation of simultaneously wearing the insignia
accusing her of prostitution and being forbidden to make any
defense on her own behalf. She laments: "My outdoor clothing,
all black and plain, told all and sundry that I had come from
a Home" (145). Since her "clothing at once stamped [her] as
a Home girl . . . what was more natural than that people of the
village should be curious as to where [she] had come from, and
as [she] could never satisfy their curiosity the worst was
conjectured" (146). She is angry at the stigma she carries,
she is angry at being labeled as guilty when she maintains a
firm belief in her innocence, and she is angry at the
injustices under which she has labored:
'Why, oh Why,' I kept asking myself, 'had my life
been so full of stigmas?—first illegitimacy, then
my place of birth being a workhouse, and now for
the rest of my life I must always be trying to hide
the fact that I had spent years in a penitentiary. '
(148)
Smith's text, punctuated with her anger, is, like
Saxby's, also threaded with the desire to escape. She

205
resists being placed where she does not want to be. Just as
she had run away from Pratt when a child, she ran away from
her first position as a domestic servant:
My early life of wandering began to have the effect
of making me restless, and suddenly I made up my
mind that I would run away again. I had been in my
place a few months so that, in spite of the fact
that I was a perfect fool where money was
concerned, never having learned how to handle it, I
had got a few shillings in my purse. I had to
fetch the milk each morning from a long distance,
and one morning instead of getting the milk, I
walked to the railway station and booked a seat to
Plymouth. I determined to go to Grandfather.
(148)
Her grandfather had of course been notified of her "escape,"
and, when Smith arrived, her welcome was less than warm. Her
grandfather's new wife advised her to go to the refuge, which
she did. She was soon placed in another position as domestic
servant, a situation she liked even less than the previous
one. Smith recalls that "the lot of a prisoner would be
infinitely preferable to ... life in that household" (151).
From this position, too, she escapes:
One day, in a frenzy, I escaped through the back
gate in my working dress, just as I was. For a
while I looked about me, wondering where to turn.
Every policeman I saw frightened me because I
thought they must know I had run away from my
place. (151)
Smith's narrative thus exposes the damaging effects of
the narratives of fallenness through which she is defined and
her anger with and resistance to the effects of these
narratives on her life. But it also reveals the ways in
which fictional narratives inflect her reception by others and

206
her understanding of herself. Smith's narration of her
experience as parlour-maid in the Thomas house could have come
straight from a Dickens' novel. Smith writes:
The daughters of the house treated me in the oddest
way until they became accustomed to me. If I met
one of them on the stairs, she would look at me
suspiciously, as if she thought I might have the
silver concealed about my person. I am quite sure
they thought it their duty to watch me closely in
case I stole or committed some other grave offense.
(165)
Of course, as David tells Dora in David Copperfield, it was
the middle-class's duty to watch the working-classes. The
Thomas daughters are doing nothing other than enacting the
instruction David gives to Dora when he takes her to task for
not properly supervising their servants, a failure which, he
says, causes them to steal. Smith's text, though, provides
more painful examples of the intertextual discursive
production of working-class women's subjectivity than this
relatively minor incident of middle-class surveillance. Novels
offered an imaginary reprieve from her life and a fantasy of
another identity, as well as a mirror of her past life and a
reflection of who she believed she was. She thinks of Pratt
as Fagin, and she compares her painful misnaming as a
prostitute to Oliver Twist's unjust naming as a thief. Smith
imagines herself a character in a book; the Thomas daughters
imagine that she needs surveillance; nuns, employers, and
inmates of the convent penitentiary all imagine Smith to be a
prostitute. And Smith suffers the consequences of this
discursive construction of the working class in general and

207
fallen women in particular: she is shamed, humiliated,
silenced, an object of incarceration, surveillance, and
detention.
In many ways Smith’s narrative recites the effects of the
interweaving social, political, legal, and fictional
discourses working to domesticate working-class women. But
the narrative also points to Smith's resistance to
domestication. She identifies with her teachers at Bramshot,
she does not want to enter the labor market outside of
Bramshot, and she never expresses any desire for a mate or
family. Convent life fulfilled Smith's desire for love and
the companionship of women, and at no point does she ever
record desiring male companionship, a husband, children, or
the trappings of domesticity. Having entered the penitentiary
at twelve, she would have been expected to go out to work
after two years, at the age of fourteen. While admittedly
young, this was the age at which most working-class girls
would normally have found employment. Not only does Smith
earn the protection of women at the convent long enough to
have her entry into the work-force delayed for some time, when
she does go out to work, she runs away from her posts and
eventually returns to Bramshot, which is precisely where she
wants to be.
Smith leaves Bramshot only reluctantly to take the
position of parlour-maid to the Thomas family, but soon leaves
this post and enters a convent as a postulant. After only

208
three months there, she comes to the conclusion that "it was
just my love for the sisters at Bramshot and the undue
influence of sister Kate that I had confused with a call from
God" (167). The Reverend Mother and the Chaplain of the
convent she had entered tell her that her vocation "is to be
a wife and mother" (167). This fills Smith with visions of "a
little home, furniture, curtains, a cradle." She also "tried
to imagine (only this was more difficult) a man in slippers"
(167). Though the cottage and child could easily fill the gap
for a nurturing space in which there was somebody to love and
be loved by, she never once imagines a husband as the source
of or object to love. And, in fact, her marriage is anything
but a romance enacted. When she returns to her post with the
Thomas's, she finds that "the gardener that used to work for
them before the war was now coming back." Mrs. Thomas tells
Smith: "I expect you'll fall in love with him" (167). As
Smith recalls:
With these and the Reverend Mother's recent words
still ringing in my ears, what more natural than
that a few months after the return of this
gardener, we were engaged to be married. ... After
a year of quiet courtship, during which time I
visited his people in a delightful thatched cottage
in Essex, we were married from my employers' house.
So then I became a wife. (167)
This singularly un-romantic account of her transition to
wife speaks of more than Smith's indifference to that
unimaginable man in slippers, it tells of the ideological work
of the bourgeoisie. The text suggests that Smith constructs
herself according to the wife/mother identity into which she

209
had recently been indoctrinated, but that this construction is
very much an imposition from the outside, an imposition that
she resents. She says: "I think it was suggested so often
that I should fall in love with this gardener that in the end
I think I believed myself in love" (168). She cannot
remember much of the courtship or her reasons for marrying:
"If I have spoken very little of our courtship, it is because
I hardly know myself how it all came about" (168). The
gardener is never named; Smith's husband is of so little
importance to the text that he need not be given proper noun
status, in marked contrast to her love for and naming of
Sisters Helen and Kate. Smith's text also specifies the
relation between wife and commodity in the urban industrial
economy. She remembers "a remark one of [her] young ladies
made to [her] one day: she said—'If you have two servants, a
man and a woman, the thing to do is to marry them up. Then
you have two servants for the price of one" (168). The
narrative is thus quite aware of the economy of working-class
marriage and equally aware that the profit is to the middle
class, not to the working-class woman:
Our early married life was not ideally happy. I
had been used to such large numbers for so many
years. Now I was missing much of which I felt a
need, though I cannot put a name to it. My husband
was an excellent gardener, but when not at work, he
usually slept; so that at first married life seemed
to me a very lonely existence. (168)
Smith's autobiography, when juxtaposed with Saxby's,
illuminates the success of Victorian efforts to domesticate

210
working-class women. While Saxby's text points to the
emerging legal, medical, popular and fictional discourses and
practices of the Victorian domesticating project, Smith's
text, so imbued with these discourses, shows us their
fruition. It also shows us the costs of these discourses and
practices to working-class women's lives. In contrast, Hannah
Cullwick's Diaries, which span the middle of the Victorian
period, show us one woman's strategies for negotiating these
changes in working-class women's class and gender definitions.
Hannah Cullwick's Diaries
While Saxby's narrative prefigures changes in Victorian
constructions of gender and class, and Smith's reflects these
changes, Hannah Cullwick's Diaries chart her struggle
negotiating an identity within an urban industrial economy.
Cullwick was a Victorian maid-servant who, for fifty-four
years, was secretly involved with a gentleman, Arthur Munby.
(They "courted" for the first eighteen and were married for
thirty-six). Her diaries span the years 1854 to 1873 (the
years before their marriage) and chronicle her work in service
as well as their relationship.'1 Several recent works have
61There have been several important analyses of Cullwick's
diaries in the last several years. Liz Stanley, editor of
Cullwick's published diaries, sensitively explores the
intricacies of the Cullwick/Munby relationship and points to
the important ways that Cullwick used her diary writing to
control her relationship to Munby. Peter Stallybrass and
Allon White, in The Politics and Poetics of Transgression,
draw upon Cullwick's diaries in their analysis of lowness,
dirt, and Victorian culture. Anne McClintock in Imperial

211
analyzed Cullwick's subversion of class and gender through her
relationship to Munby. Most significantly, Cullwick's
relationship to Munby transgresses class bounds and enables
her to resist domestication as a working-class wife and
mother.62 In particular, Langland argues that Cullwick
stabilizes her "class and gender identity" through the
Leather provides a detailed and illuminating psychoanalysis of
the fetishism and sadomasochism around which Cullwick and
Munby organized their relationship. Leonore Davidoff, in
"Class and Gender in Victorian England: The Diaries of Arthur
J. Munby and Hannah Cullwick," explores the various class and
gender transgressions Cullwick's diaries reveal. Most
recently, Elizabeth Langland's Nobody's Angels analyzes
Cullwick's diaries for the social semiotics of class and
gender.
62Cullwick's experience with one of her employers, Miss
Margaret Henderson, details the Victorian belief in the
middle-class's responsibility for the moral supervision of the
working-classes. Miss Margaret tells Hannah "I heard a sermon
last night which made me feel that my servants' souls are in
my charge & I must say I can't understand about you. I shd
like to know more of your history" (191). Thus charged with
the spiritual development of their servants, employers like
Miss Henderson demanded that their servants, like their
children, answer to them for their time and their conduct.
The strict supervision of working-class women employed in
middle-class homes was one of the means by which the middle-
class inculcated their values into the working-classes. Any
suspicious activity servants displayed must be explained, and
"immoral" behavior was grounds for instant dismissal. This
moral surveillance posed problems for Cullwick throughout all
of her years in service. Cullwick's employers frequently
found her conduct suspicious, and she was accused several
times of improper behavior with Munby. Her secret
relationship to Munby required that she find time to meet with
him, and she was often in the position of not wishing to
explain her whereabouts. Moreover, she particularly disliked
having to ask permission to go out. Her fellow servants and
middle-class employers even found the diaries she kept for and
regularly mailed to Munby suspicious. She was twice dismissed
from positions because her employers thought her relationship
to Munby was not "respectable."

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"racially inflected discourse of degradation and dirt," and
that "the racial inflections of her identity ... served the
important function of making unique her commonplace
inscription as working-class woman, domestic servant" (216-7).
Similarly, McClintock argues that Cullwick refuses "the social
abjection of her labor and domestic dirt" by "exhibiting, of
her own stubborn volition, the public evidence of women's
domestic dirt, banished by Victorian decree to kitchen and
back-corridor, cellar and garret—the architecture of the
unseen" (149). McClintock identifies Cullwick's and Munby's
"profound and mutual involvement in a variety of fetish
rituals: slave/master (S/M), bondage/discipline (B/D), hand,
foot and boot fetishisms, washing rituals, infantilism (or
babyism), cross-dressing, and a deep and mutual fascination
with dirt" (138). Their S/M scripts are an "economy of
conversion" in which:
The paraphernalia of S/M (boots, whips, chains,
uniforms) is the paraphernalia of state power,
public punishment converted to private pleasure.
S/M plays social power backward, visibly and
outrageously staging hierarchy, difference and
power, the irrational, ecstasy, or alienation of
the body, placing these ideas at the center of
Western reason. S/M thus reveals the imperial
logic of individualism and refuses it as fate, even
though it does not finally step outside the
enchantment of its own magic circle. (143)
Clearly, Cullwick's diaries are a strategy and a
performance which reveal the means by which she secured her
relationship to Munby, achieved a positive ego-fulfillment in
her working-class identity, and obtained the financial means

213
with which to retire early and live, as she always dreamed she
might, independently in her own cottage. But the diaries also
reveal crucial ruptures in her self-construction. I am
interested in reading these ruptures for indications of
Cullwick's desires, her resistance to middle-class efforts to
control her life, and evidence of the anger she felt at her
subordination. In one of her later letters to Munby, she
writes:
I know you love me passionately as a servant, &
it's a noble as well as a Christian like thing to
do, but we cannot write it all over again (about it
I mean). There's two sides to it, the dark side
and the bright side—you love me but are forced to
hide me, through fear of the world, & I must live
alone or do again my will, & tho' I tell everyone I
talk to as I've always been a servant & how much I
like the work, you know I have suffer'd enough
through it to make me hate the name. (296-7)
One of the things Cullwick suffered most from as a
domestic servant was the anxiety of displacement. Like Smith,
she internalizes middle-class ideologies of home and family,
but, as with most working-class women, these structures are
unavailable to her. Her narrative is marked by a pervasive
desire for the security a middle-class home represents.
Forced to leave her mother at the age of eight and enter
service, Cullwick's life-long pursuit was for a restoration of
the early love and security she felt with her mother. She
wishes that she "had a home to go to at Christmas" (184) and
suffers throughout her life from the depression of
displacement of a life of service in other people's homes: as
an orphaned domestic servant, she belongs nowhere. Thinking

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of her and her siblings' plight, Cullwick writes: "Poor
orphans as we was left, & still are—at the mercy of strangers
for a home, so whatever I may save I feel poor & unable to do
what I shd like to either for myself or them" (191). During
her first years of service (and especially after the deaths of
both her mother and father), Cullwick recalls: "I felt lonely
and began to wish I had somebody to love me again, & that
after all it wasn't wicked to take a sweetheart as I'd always
thought" (39). Ironically, it is this very desire for a home
and a sense of belonging that first motivates her relationship
to Munby. Cullwick writes: "I made up my mind that it was
best & safest to be a slave to a gentleman, nor wife & equal
to any vulgar man" (273). Choosing to be a gentleman's slave
instead of a workingman's wife makes sense in light of
Cullwick's own experience with working-class poverty and
insecurity. She, like her brothers and sisters, was sent out
to work early; her parents died while she was very young and
in service, and she was not even allowed to attend their
funeral; she witnessed the suffering, anxiety, and deprivation
of working-class couples struggling to make homes and raise
families. In this light, Cullwick's rejection of the working-
class wife and mother identity is a logical corollary to her
desire for a home and security. Cullwick's observations of her
family and the lives of people she knows suggest that marriage
and children jeopardize working-class women's security. She
writes: "That is the worse o' poor folks, they will get

215
married young & it makes me angry, 'cause there's so much
poverty & trouble on trouble & confusion comes with it
generally. However I suppose they will please themselves
after all & it must be left alone" (238). Similarly,
Cullwick both feels sorry for and judges as foolish her friend
Tilly, who "used to be smart & proud & come to work at
dressmaking at Mrs. Fosters till she acted foolishly & was
big, & in this miserable room waiting" (45).
Not only does Cullwick refuse the insecurity and
exploitation specific to working-class motherhood, she also
expresses a desire for the respect of a middle-class subject
position. While the diary is heavily invested in constructing
an identity that exalts manual labor and domestic service,
there are moments when this discourse breaks down and reveals
Cullwick's desire to transgress certain class bounds (a desire
which her relation to Munby covertly enacts). For example,
when Munby unexpectedly visits Cullwick during one of her
infreguent trips to her native Shropshire, Cullwick writes:
"Massa turn'd up the street with me where the standings was &
I ask'd him to give me a fairing. It was almost like as if he
was an equal—there, & then. How I wish it could o' lasted
so!" (225). This particular diary entry consciously
acknowledges the desire, veiled in so many other entries, to
be Munby's equal.63 Additionally, in an entry made shortly
b30ne might construe this passage as suggesting that
Cullwick desires an equality in which Munby comes down to her
class. It makes little difference if the movement to equality

216
after her return from their honeymoon trip to France, Cullwick
finds herself dissatisfied with her treatment as a servant.
She writes to Munby: "I miss'd the politeness I'd bin used to
in France" (267). Cullwick attributes this politeness to the
good manners of the French which seem to her so striking next
to the rudeness of her native Englishmen. She does not
attribute the difference in her treatment to the fact that, in
France, she entered society as Munby's legitimate wife and a
lady, while, in England, she ran errands and performed
services for Munby as his servant. While Cullwick's diaries
continue to maintain her desire to be nothing more than
"Massa's slave" and his "only servant," the text also reveals
her preference for the treatment she receives as a lady.
Langland argues that Cullwick's self-definition
(culturally constituted around "manual labor, drudgery and
dirt as signifiers of her value") left her completely
"alienated from the signifying practices of the middle class;
to be a lady was, for her, to be without identity" (220-21).
Thus, when Munby requests that she perform as a lady, her
identity breaks down. This split is painfully clear when
Cullwick writes:
Of the two I'd choose to be dirty & to clean the
closet tho', because there's no seeming to be what
one isn't in this. And that when I'm with M. &
have to remember I'm in disguise it would be no
is a move up by Hannah or a move down by Munby: the passage is
at least clear that the desire is for equality, not, as
suggested in so many other passages, for her subservience to
Munby.

217
wonder if I felt conscious & ashamed of myself as
being unfit, & knowing I was a servant myself all
the while the chambermaids or waiters bow'd to me &
call'd me 'Madam' (277).
This entry, like the one in which she expresses the desire to
be Munby's egual and the one in which she prefers the "polite"
treatment she received while in society as a "lady," reveals
the anxiety of her subordination. The preference she
expresses for being "dirty" and cleaning is founded upon the
desire to be valued for what she is: she would choose to be
dirty because she does not have to seem what she isn't. When
she performs as a lady, she must always be conscious that it
is a performance, and the performance highlights the
discrepancy between her "real" class position and that of a
lady. It is thus not so much the privilege of being treated
as a lady that Cullwick rejects as her consciousness that the
treatment is contingent upon a deception, a masguerade which
assumes her inferiority. Thus, while Cullwick's diaries are
certainly part of a scripted performance which, by exalting
the most degrading aspects of her labor, allowed her to
construct a subject position from which she derived a sense of
power in and control over her life, they are also a revelation
of her desire for social eguality and respect.
Just after her 30th birthday, Cullwick writes:
I am thirty years old this month—must be quite a
woman now, though I don't feel any different than I
ever did except in feeling lower in heart I think,
for I've bin a servant now 20 years or more.
Always the lowest kind, but I think different about
it now a good deal than I did ten years ago ' fore I
knew Massa. He has taught me, though it's been

218
difficult to learn thoroughly, the beauty in being
nothing but a common drudge & to bear being
despised by others what don't have to work the same
way. I have hardly ever met wi' a servant yet who
wasn't ashamed o' dirty work & who wouldn't be glad
to get out of it for something they think is
better, but I wouldn't get out of it if I could,
nor change from being Massa's slave for anything
else I know of. I've ben a slave now 9 years &
worn the chains & padlocks 6 years—I don't hide
'em now from Mary for she saw 'em every night at
Brighton this time. (126)
While Cullwick maintains that she wouldn't "get out" of
service if she could, she also records that she feels "lower
in heart" than she ever has. And, while she "think[s]
different" about service now than she did before Munby showed
her "the beauty in being nothing but a common drudge & to bear
being despised by others what don't have to work the same
way," she also records that this has been "difficult to learn
thoroughly." Indeed, we are left suspecting that Cullwick
never does quite learn this "lesson." In fact, it is possible
to read Cullwick's discourse embracing her "dirt" and
"drudgery" as invested with the pride of humility as an
achievement. Like Saxby, Cullwick can find a positive
identity value in a religious discourse which privileges
poverty and hard work. While she can exercise no control over
the material and class conditions into which she was born,
embracing the religious discourse in which Christ loves the
humble, and self-sacrificing work earns eternal love and
salvation, invests her working-class identity with a power
unavailable to her in any immediate material way. What's
more, within Cullwick's self-construction as the lowest of

219
working drudges, humility is positively valued, but vulgarity
is not. Cullwick consistently separates herself from her
working-class counterparts, perceiving herself as superior in
judgment, sensibility, and values. When she finds herself
constrained to take work in an establishment that does not
meet her standard of respectability, she writes:
I could see myself cleaning the doorsteps of a
vulgar London lodging house in a street full of
nothing but the same thing, & the servants of the
rest looking as common & vulgar & low as the houses
& them who kept them, for they wore ribbons & tiny
caps or none at all on hair done up as fashionably
as possible. So I did feel rather vex'd to be put
on a level with them as it were. (56)
So, while she may be humble—and her humility is
conditional, her pride fierce—she is not vulgar. But even
this self-construction cannot always ward off the despair of
a life laboring in other people's service. At one
particularly low point, Cullwick describes coming down "to the
wretched-looking kitchen & I felt so sick & bad from so much
dirt & hard work. I felt that I couldn't do any more till
I'd bin out & forgot it a bit" (171). In this same entry she
asks her sister Polly if she would ever like to "live a lady's
life" (172). Polly says that she would not, and Cullwick
replies:
Neither would I, but still there was so many nice
things they could hear & see & understand & do what
we never could. ... If service could be made as
happy as it might be & I could get out when I
wanted without asking leave & the rest of it I shd
never wish for anything else. (172)

220
This entry, which seems to speak her contentment with a
servant's life, voices that service is not as "happy as it
might be"; that she cannot get out when she likes without
asking leave; and that she would like "to hear & see &
understand & do" what ladies do.
Just as Cullwick cannot completely repress her desire for
middle-class subject status, she never completely identifies
herself as Munby's "slave." She catches herself before
referring to Munby as "Massa" in her aunt's presence, writing
that she "daren't finish cause my aunt doesn't know I call him
that" (222). And, after a serious fight with Munby (prompted
by Cullwick's anger at Munby's display of his superiority over
her) she does not want to tell her sister Ellen about the
fight. She records that "I shd be ashamed to tell her too,
that M. had expected me to call him 'Sir'" (256). Thus,
Cullwick's investment in a servant/slave identity as a means
of legitimating and positively valuing her labor coexists with
her resistance to and rebellion against class subjection.
Her text reveals a pervasive anger at being denied the agency
and value of middle-class identity. Clearly, Cullwick has to
feel that her service was consensual, something she chooses to
do. When she is confronted with the forced nature of her
service, she rebels. She could aggressively assert her rights
to her employers and to Munby, and responds angrily to overtly
controlling measures. Her anger at this control is evident in
an entry made after Miss Henderson attempted to make Cullwick

221
stay in on an evening for which she had obtained permission to
go out:
I suppose she saw a little temper in me, the same
as I saw in her, for she said, 'Hannah, you forget
your place,' I said, 'No, ma'am, I don't, but it
puts me out after I've got leave, & put straight,
to be stopp'd for nothing. ... I come downstairs
feeling very angry & vex'd. (164)
When Munby seems to take her employers' side after this
episode, Cullwick is just as angry with him as she is with
them. Her righteous defense of her conduct and her demand to
have her agency recognized confronted Munby with the fact that
the control he thought he exercised over her was his own
fiction. She writes:
I was very tired & I felt rebelious rather, as if I
had bin play'd with, & annoy'd too, tho' I didn't
care for having had warning to leave. Therefor I
couldn't bear for M. To take their part again me, &
I told Massa how it was to feel—a great big wench
& strong as I am, as could crush a weak thing like
Miss Margaret is, with one hand (tho1 of course I
wouldn't) & she must know that, for her to trifle
with me about going out, when I'd got leave too.
And play with me as if I was a child & unkindly
too, especially when it was to see M—I must o'
spoke up, it'd a bin cowardice to a degree to have
took it quietly when I meant otherwise & I wasn't
rude nor insolent. (165-6)
Cullwick's angry defense of herself and her rights is
finally too much for either Munby's or her fantasy
constructions to bear. Her construction of her service as
consensual breaks down when confronted by the coercive power
Munby can exercise over her. Similarly, Munby's construction
of Cullwick as his humble servant breaks down in the face of
her anger. Their relationship almost ends after a fight which

222
occurs shortly after Cullwick becomes Munby's full-time
servant. Munby becomes angry that Cullwick does not address
him as 'sir' when another barrister's clerk is present.
Cullwick has "no idea any one was above likely to be
listening," and perceives Munby's conduct as "showing off,"
which puts her "temper up to its highest." She writes:
I felt so angry, 'cause I thought if M. Knew the
boy was on the stairs he oughtn't to o' come down,
not only for the humiliation the first day, but
because I didn't even know Mr. Reeves kept a lad as
clerk. So I was really in a passion & I said a
great deal I didn't mean, & I declared that if M.
tantalised me in that way again I would leave him
whether we was married or not, for I didn't care a
straw for that. Of course I meant that for the
moment, for I felt I couldn't stand do be treated
as such a 'nothing' & with no consideration after
having ... [unreadable] so much all these years, &
coming at last to be only as a servant to
everyone's eyes except his. (255)
This particular fight (which is eventually resolved) is
especially important as an indication of the threat Cullwick's
anger poses to their relationship and as a foreshadowing of
the rupture which ends their cohabitation within a few years
after their marriage. After this fight, Cullwick writes:
For if M. Had gone on, speaking to me crossly or
sharp as he used to Mrs. Mitchell, I know I shd go
out o' my mind, & a very bad end would come to him
as well as to me, for I canna bear it, altho' I'm
humble, & wish to be only like a servant. But for
him I've sacrificed so much & done so much for, &
loved so unselfishly & disinterestedly, that I will
not be mock'd nor deceived.
The anger Cullwick experiences at her subordination, (an anger
which Munby misrecognizes for as long as he possibly can) is

223
thus also a literal threat to Munby—"a very bad end would
come to him" if he continued to provoke her.
Cullwick's diaries, then, show us the complex struggle
for a positive identity that faced working-class women moving
to the industrial city from rural agricultural areas. All of
their relations—economic, familial, communal—were changing.
McClintock perceptively identifies the fetish rituals in which
Cullwick and Munby engaged as embodying the signifiers of the
new state power. While her relationship to Munby did
certainly provide a theater for dramatizing the power
struggles of changing class and gender relations, the
relationship could not resolve these conflicts. It is,
however, in the failure of Cullwick's strategies that
contemporary feminists may see ourselves reflected. Our means
of negotiating power inequalities may have more in common with
Cullwick's than we would care to admit. Cullwick's diaries,
like the other women's autobiographies I’ve examined, can
suggest possibilities for a feminist re-construction of gender
identities in the twenty-first century.
Conclusion
A "conclusion," of course, must address the issue of
relevance—in what way is a study of Victorian tropes of
prostitution and the restructuring of working-class families
significant to contemporary readers? And how might this study
be useful to a feminist revision of gender roles and power

224
relations? In its broadest sense, this study indicates the
degree to which our contemporary rhetoric is still very much
embedded in Victorian legal, medical, political, social and
fictional constructions of class and gender. Contemporary
fear responses to A.I.D.S. (including the call for compulsory
A.I.D.S. testing and the desire to isolate and confine
A.I.D.S. patients) echo Victorian discourses and practices
legitimating passage of the Contagious Diseases Acts.
Political rhetoric demonizing the "welfare mother" and
lamenting the disintegration of the "family" invoke Victorian
discourses of fallenness. And the pervasive fears of the
impoverished and dangerous working-classes (generally
racialized in America as black) over-running the safe domain
of middle-class respectability closely parallel Victorian
fears of the dangerous working-classes.
Far from being so much more "enlightened" than the
Victorians, we are, in some very crucial ways, still playing
out race, class, and gender roles that were largely scripted
in the nineteenth century. While it is often difficult for us
to see outside of our own ideological constructions, a hundred
years' distance may allow us to identify the logical fallacies
of those Victorian discourses with which we have so much in
common, and to generalize from them to our own ideological
traps. As a case in point, the discourse of women's purity
central to Victorian constructions of the domestic woman may
seem, in the 1990's U.S.A., to be outdated. The sexual

225
liberation rhetoric of the '60's, the relative accessibility
of birth control, and civil rights advances allowing women
greater educational and professional opportunities have
enabled many women to escape the punitive effects of gender
codes which define as "fallen" women who have premarital sex,
illegitimate children, or cohabit with men without benefit of
legal marriage But we read Victorian discourses of purity in
the still pervasive double standard by which sexually active
unmarried women are easily labeled "sluts" while sexually
active unmarried men are still rewarded for their masculine
prowess. More insidiously, the history of rape trials reveals
the impossibility of separating discourses of purity from
contemporary laws defining and punishing rape. The notorious
legal strategy of constructing raped women as sexual
temptresses and, by virtue of previous sexual activity,
whores, still makes it extremely difficult for rape victims to
bring cases to trial, and virtually impossible for them to
secure a conviction.
Victorian discourses of domesticity also inflect women's
everyday lives. Women's magazines from Ms to Redbook feature
articles lamenting the sad fact that women still perform the
vast majority of household labor. Stories of men "helping"
with the dishes or doing the once-a-month load of laundry have
become common-place jokes. Significantly, such stories are
not class-specific: housework is, by definition, women's work,
and both middle- and working-class women form gender

226
identities around beliefs that women cook, clean, and care for
husbands and children. The gendered division of labor which
constructs the house as women's domain and housework as
women's work is commonly configured as a problem because it
places a double burden of labor on women who also work outside
the home. We must, however, be suspicious of representations
which take for granted women's role as homemaker and construct
the gendered quality of domestic labor as a problem for women
who move outside of the home (i.e., outside of their natural
sphere) to work. As many feminist activists and scholars have
pointed out (and as this study bears witness to), "home" and
the "domestic woman" are relatively recent, historically
specific constructions. While bourgeois women could remain
within the home to supervise the family and manage its
resources, working-class women could not. Victorian efforts
to domesticate working-class women relied upon convincing them
to add domestic labor to their already existing market labor;
contemporary debates about the unequal division of labor
assume women's domestic labor, which becomes unfairly
burdensome to them only when they add market labor to their
already existing domestic labor.
The Victorians effected an important ideological shift
which redefined working-class women: they went from being seen
as primarily workers who must be taught domestic duties, to
being seen as housewives who enter the paid labor market.
Understanding this ideological shift begs us to call into

227
question all of our preconceptions about women's work.
Indeed, feminists continue to challenge the social and
political practices limiting women's sphere. Women are
entering traditionally male arenas such as competitive sports
and the military. We are achieving higher levels of
professional and political power. But we are met, at every
level and with every new challenge, with old gender
definitions which are used to legitimate women's exclusion
from the public (male) sphere.
Since our contemporary understanding of gender derives
from Victorian ideologies, our understanding of the evolution
of modern gender identities can be a valuable tool in a
feminist politics which seeks to redefine gender. The records
of the Lock Hospital and Asylum, police and medical reports,
and Foundling Hospital illuminate the historical development
of the "domestic" woman and the important relationship between
the cult of domesticity and nationalism, capitalism, and
imperialism. Novels show us how legal, medical, social,
political, and fictional discourses produce and are produced
by each other. And, most importantly, working-class women's
self-representations chart individual women's confrontations
with their society's restrictive gender roles.

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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
I launched my academic "career" in 1980 at the relatively
young age of sixteen, and at the most inasupicious of
colleges, Valencia Community College, in Orlando, Florida. I
consider my entry into college as my point of origin: for the
first time in my life, I experienced an intellectual freedom
and a hope that had been absent in my life until then. I had
great pleasure editing my college newspaper, writing for the
literary magazine, and hobnobbing with my instructors. In
August of 1982 I moved to Saratoga Springs, New York, where I
spent a semester at the Parson's Design Project of the New
School for Social Research. I then went to Lake Tahoe in
December of 1982 and attended Sierra Nevada College, Incline
Village, Nevada, for a quarter. After a year of snow and
creative writing, I moved to Honolulu Hawaii, where in 1985
I finished my Bachaleor of Arts degree in English. My next
sojourn was to San Diego, California, where, in 1987, I earned
my Master of Arts degree from the University of California at
San Diego in English and American Literature. For the next
several years, I taught high school at Trenton High School,
Trenton, Florida, and as an adjunct instructor at Santa Fe
Community College, Gainseville, Florida. I entered the Ph.D.
program in English Literature at the University of Florida in
240

241
August of 1992, where I completed my Ph.D. in
Literature in August of 1996.
English

I certify that I have read this study and that in my
opinion it conforms to acceptable standards of scholarly
presentation and is fully adequate, in scope and quality, as
a dissertation for the deqree of Doctor of
Langl^hd, ChaMr
Professor of English
I certify that I have read this study and that in my
opinion it conforms to acceptable standards of scholarly
presentation and is fully adequate, in scope and quality, as
a dissertation for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy.
Chris Snodgras^-
Associate Professor of
English
I certify that I have read this study and that in my
opinion it conforms to acceptable standards of scholarly
presentation and is fully adequate, in scope and quality, as
a dissertation for the degree of Doctor hi Philosophy.
â– La
Dan Cottom
Professor of English
I certify that I have read this study and that in my
opinion it conforms to acceptable standards of scholarly
presentation and is fully adequate, in scope and quality, as
a dissertation for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy.
Leslie Thiele
Associate Professor of
Political Science
I certify that I have read this study and that in my
opinion it conforms to acceptable standards of scholarly
presentation and is fully adequate, in scope and quality, as
a dissertation for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy.
5c¿u¿ttt
Ofelia Schutte
rofessor of Philosophy

This dissertation was submitted to the Graduate Faculty
of the Department of English in the College of Liberal Arts
and Sciences and to the Graduate School and was accepted as
partial fulfillment of the reguirements for the degree of
Doctor of Philosophy.
August, 1996
Dean, Graduate School




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