Thoreau as Emerson’s Philosophical Equivalent

The 19^th-century philosophical and literary movement of Transcendentalism emphasized three things: a Romantic notion, tinged with Asian beliefs, of the interrelated relationship between nature, divinity, and humankind; a faith in intuition, by way of passive perception; and, lastly, an interest in “the quintessential American concept” of individuality (Introduction xxv). Ralph Waldo Emerson, as a foremost figure, if not the founder, of American Transcendentalism, is a champion of these three tenets, of course. More uncertain is the extent to which Henry David Thoreau adopted the views of Emerson, who was “the most important influence and friendship in [Thoreau’s] life” (Henry David Thoreau 826). A comparative reading of the pivotal works of these two authors – Nature and “Self-Reliance” by Emerson; Walden and “Resistance to Civil Government” by Thoreau – indicates a few differences between the two. Most notably, Thoreau demonstrates a far greater preoccupation with contemporary societal issues and the immediate world about him. However, in the larger scope of each author’s ideas, these differences are minor; Thoreau’s conception of Transcendentalism is effectively equivalent to Emerson’s philosophy.

To begin with, Thoreau shares many of Emerson’s views of nature. For instance, as John Ronan and Sherman Paul before him have noted, in Walden, Thoreau demonstrates the four uses of nature – “commodity,” “language,” “beauty,” and “discipline” – which Emerson outlines in Nature (Ronan 155). Paul summarizes it thus (as quoted by Ronan):

Like Emerson in Nature [Thoreau] began with the prudential, rising through the progressive uses of nature to spirit. Indeed, most of Emerson’s treatise was embodied in Walden: “Commodity” in “Economy”; “Nature” and “Beauty” in “Sounds” and “Solitude”; “Language” in “Brute Neighbours”; “Discipline” in “Reading.” “The Beanfield,” and “Higher Laws”... (155)

Of the four, “Discipline” is the most significant to both Emerson and Thoreau. Emerson states that “the happiest man is he who learns from nature” (514). Similarly, Thoreau states that his purpose in spending time in the woods around Walden Pond is to “learn what [nature] had to teach” (892).

To Thoreau, nature’s lessons regard “the essential facts of life” (892). To Emerson, the greatest lesson to procure from nature is that “of worship” (514). Herein, a divergence between the two transcendentalists becomes apparent. Although both Emerson and Thoreau agree in the importance of nature as a discipline, Emerson’s primary concern is the discovery of “a religion by revelation” (492). He turns to nature for such revelation of spiritual knowledge because, as he states, “in the woods, we return to...faith” (494). On the other hand, Thoreau shows a greater interest in contemporary “life” (892). In the chapter “Economy,” his nature imagery consistently relates to or is representative of society. For example, Thoreau uses a metaphor describing philanthropic men as plants used in tea-making to express his disagreement with charity:

Those plants of whose greenness withered we make herb tea for the sick serve but a humble use, and are most employed by quacks. I want the flower and fruit of a man; that some fragrance be wafted over from him to me, and some ripeness flavor our intercourse. (884)

In “Where I Lived, and What I Lived For,” as another case in point, Thoreau envisions all humanity as ants that “live meanly” (892). Thus, while Emerson is interested in nature for its perceived ability to connect him to God, for Thoreau, nature’s essential lessons are about life, people, and the issues faced by Western society.

This is not to say, however, that Thoreau does not share in Emerson’s view of nature as divine. Walden is ripe with allusions to a higher power. Thoreau’s description of his cabin in the woods, for example, connotes divinity in its references to godly figures and heavenly music:

This was an airy and unplastered cabin, fit to entertain a travelling god, and where a goddess might trail her garments. The winds which passed over my dwelling were such as sweep over the ridges of mountains, bearing the broken strains, or celestial parts only, of terrestrial music. (889)

He goes on to state “Olympus is but the outside of the Earth everywhere” (889) relating the divine in the subject of Mount Olympus, with “the outside...everywhere” (889) – that is, nature. Elsewhere, Thoreau writes, “In eternity there is indeed something true and sublime. But...God himself culminates in the present moment,” suggesting his belief in what Emerson calls the “perpetual presence of the sublime” (895). Thus, although Thoreau most clearly depicts nature as a metaphor for life conveying messages regarding specific issues of his time, he also recognizes and refers to the inherent divinity in his surroundings. Therefore in their views of nature, Emerson and Thoreau are not especially divergent. Although Emerson is more frequently explicit in stating his spiritual beliefs, both he and Thoreau express an opinion of nature as an extension of a higher power, capable of departing to its observant student a greater understanding of himself and the world about him.

In addition to their respective understandings of nature, Emerson and Thoreau also do not differ in the manner in which they propose to observe and intuit nature; both advocate a method of receptiveness. Passivity, a vital aspect of this method, is exemplified in this well-known passage from Emerson’s Nature:

Standing on the bare ground,—my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space,—all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God. (494)

The phrase “all mean egotism vanishes” epitomizes the notion of absolute passivity – being, without any assertion of one’s being. The transparency (rather than opacity or translucency) of the infamous transcendental eye-ball also alludes to the concept of passive existence; the eye-ball is all but nonexistent. At the same time, the passivity described by Emerson is one which allows exceptional observation: Emerson “[sees] all” (494). As Kristen Bennett details in “Translating Transcendentalism: a Transcontinental Revelation of Emersonian Enthusiasm,” the transcendental emphasis on a perceptive passivity was inspired by the Kantian notion of a priori knowledge, or intuition, filtered through European Romanticism, particularly through the figures of Samuel Coleridge, William Wordsworth, and Thomas Carlyle (33). Bennett writes,

Carlyle will maintain that the subconscious generates Creation, and is, via inward reflection, revealed to the conscious self through subliminal inspiration. Ergo, when one consciously strives to achieve revelation, it will only be a manufactured version, (33) thus explaining the emphasis placed by transcendentalists on absolute passivity in anticipation of intuition.

Thoreau partakes in transcendental passivity during his stay at Walden Pond. Through the first two chapters, he advocates a non-assertive existence in the repetition of “simplicity, simplicity, simplicity” (892) and praise of his own minimalistic lifestyle for “the leisure...thus secured” (876). Author David Robinson labels Thoreau’s stance as one of “dynamic passivity” (21), a term which neatly sums up the transcendentalist approach to intuiting nature. Thoreau’s desire to “‘receive [his] life as passively as the willow leaf that flutters over the brook’” (Robinson 21) is another aspect of Transcendentalism which he shares with Emerson.

As with the appreciation of nature as a bearer of truth as well as the passive approach to nature, Thoreau does not radically differ from Emerson on the third fundamental tenet of transcendentalism: self-reliance and assertion of one’s individuality, following intuition. In Walden, he aspires to “live deliberately” (892), and thereby set himself apart from “the mass of men [who] lead lives of quiet desperation” (847). In “Resistance to Civil Government,” while allowing that the installation of democracy is “a progress toward a true respect for the individual” (844), he maintains that” a government in which the majority rule in all cases can not be based on justice” (830) as “there is but little virtue in the action of masses of men” (832). Thus, Thoreau is a champion of individual thinking and non-conformity, putting him in alignment with Emerson, who declares, “Whoso would be a man, must be a nonconformist” (534). Thoreau also shares Emerson’s belief in non-consistency, as evidenced by his agreement, in Walden, with the Confucian line “Renew thyself completely each day; do it again, and again, and forever again” (891). If there is any difference in the issue of self-reliance and independence between the two men, it is akin to the difference between them in regards to their connection to nature (discussed above); Emerson deals abstractly with the ideals of non-conformity and non-consistency whereas Thoreau is deeply concerned with actual contemporary experiences such as the cause of abolition in America, the Mexican War, and the poll tax. That said, however, the ideas which underlie Thoreau’s actions in these matters – among them a belief in non-conformity and confidence in one’s intuitions – are aligned with Emerson’s thoughts.

Thoreau’s conception of Transcendentalism is, thus, considerably similar to Emerson’s philosophy in regards to those ideas and beliefs which are most commonly associated with the movement. Emerson and Thoreau both share a view of nature as divinely inspired with knowledge of the world; they each believe in the need to intuitively grasp the lessons of nature, through a method of “dynamic passivity” (Robinson 21); finally, they believe in following these intuitions with conviction and self-assurance. The only divergence between the two authors as evidenced by the literature is that Emerson is theoretical, while Thoreau, concerned with the application of his ideas, is experiential and empirical. That being said, Thoreau does not significantly re-envision Emerson’s fundamental ideas regarding nature, intuition, and self-reliance. His philosophy is, therefore, Transcendentalist in the Emersonian mould.

“Some Sweet Moral Blossom” – An Analysis of Sin and Transcendence in Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter

“The founders of a new colony, whatever Utopia of human virtue and happiness they might originally project, have invariably recognized it among their earliest practical necessities to allot a portion of the virgin soil as a cemetery, and another portion as the site of a prison” (42). Thus, in the first chapter of The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne introduces the major theme of his magnum opus: sin (alongside death) is an invariable experience of the human condition, rooted at the very origins of society. In a world where sinning is inevitable – within the scope of The Scarlet Letter, a world which begins at a prison-door – Hawthorne suggests that what matters most is not so much the sin itself but what follows; that is, its consequences and how one handles them. He explores this concept to a full extent through the chief characters of Hester Prynne, Arthur Dimmesdale, and Roger Chillingworth, taking a transcendentalist approach which relies heavily on the emblematic significance of nature, events, and other characters. Through symbolism, characterization, and plot, Hawthorne develops a dark romance which demonstrates that while sin, inherent in humanity, may lead to doom and despair, it may also readily lead into transcendence.

Roger Chillingworth, because he chooses to follow the transgression which sets off the novel’s action with wrath and vengeance, is the worst affected of the three main characters by sin; by immersing himself in it, he gradually becomes the very symbol of sin – the devil incarnate. From his initial appearance in the book, Chillingworth appears to be beyond civilized humanity: he arrives out of the wilderness “at the outskirts of the crowd...clad in a strange disarray of civilized and savage costume” (54). The moment he sees Hester on the scaffold, “a writhing horror [twists] itself across his features, like a snake gliding swiftly over them” (55); the image of the snake overtaking his appearance reflects the evil overtaking Chillingworth. Furthermore, the narrator states that physicians, “in their researches into the human frame...[lose] the spiritual view of existence” (107), an opinion which coincides with Chillingworth’s role in the book as he probes “deep into the patient’s bosom” (111) with no heed to “the sanctity of the human heart” (178).

The sinfulness of Chillingworth is most evident in his appearance. Hawthorne takes a transcendentalist approach in using the physical nature of his characters as an indication of their moral nature. When Chillingworth arrives in Boston, he has a “slight deformity of the figure” (55) suggesting a defect within. After a period of time focusing his entire self upon revenge, the Puritans perceive “something ugly and evil in [Chillingworth’s] face” (113). His eyes acquire a glimmer “like one of those gleams of ghastly fire that darted from Bunyan’s awful door-way in the hillside” (116). Precisely halfway through the novel, Chillingworth is likened to “the arch-fiend” (141), and by the end of the novel, “so dark, disturbed, and evil was his look, [he seemed to come from] the nether regions” (231).

As such, in the course of the story, Chillingworth’s preoccupation and struggle for dominion over Arthur Dimmesdale’s soul associates him with Satan. Chillingworth becomes the personification of evil.

That Arthur Dimmesdale strikes a friendship with Chillingworth, allowing “something inimical to his peace [to] thrust itself into relation with him” (117), indicates the Reverend’s moral weakness against sin. His sensitivity is represented in his appearance: he is described as a “pale, young man...[with] melancholy eyes, and a mouth which was...tremulous” (59). The dimness, or frailty, which defines the pastor and even lends him the name “Dimmesdale,” withholds him from confessing his sin, and his ensuing guilt merely furthers his weakness, as is evidenced by the steady declination of his health. Thus, the book suggests that moral weakness perpetuates itself. Because Dimmesdale is weak, unable to confess his sin and open himself to punishment, he traps himself into private guilt and pervasive suspicion. “Trusting no man as his friend, he could not recognize his enemy when the latter actually appeared” (117); thus he easily falls prey to Chillingworth, who in turn weakens his spirit even further.

Yet even as Chillingworth carries out his plans for vengeance, Dimmesdale is urged to moral strength by his daughter Pearl – herself, the physical manifestation of sin. It is ironic that even as Chillingworth, evil personified, endeavours to ruin Dimmesdale, sin personified in the character of Pearl continually urges the Reverend to publicly confess and thereby, as seen in “The Revelation of the Scarlet Letter,” escape from not only his own private guilt but from the torture carried out on him by Chillingworth.

The essential difference between Chillingworth and Pearl is that Chillingworth, from his very introduction in the novel, is characterized by secrecy, whereas Pearl becomes an emblem of openness; while Chillingworth hides his identity and his purpose, Pearl comes into existence in the public eye, is the concern of “leading inhabitants” (90), and advocates honesty throughout. Thus in having Pearl consistently encourage Dimmesdale to do that which is ultimately his spiritual and mental salvation – that is, acknowledge that she is his sin, as well as Hester’s – Hawthorne suggests a vital step in escaping a life of detrimental guilt: confession. Furthermore, Pearl herself undergoes a transformation after Dimmesdale’s confession:

“Pearl kissed [Dimmesdale’s] lips. A spell was broken...As her tears fell upon her father’s cheek, they were the pledge that she would grow up amid human joy and sorrow, nor for ever do battle with the world, but be a woman in it” (234).

The conclusion hints that the “elf-child” (239) leads a pristine and noble life afterwards. Thus the story, through the relation between Dimmesdale, Chillingworth, and Peal, demonstrates that sin kept in secrecy is perpetual sin, whereas sin acknowledged and repented of has at least the potential to become something greater.

The transcendence of and from sin is exemplified in the central character of Hester Prynne who rises from a “malefactress” (46) to a “legend” (239) within her community. As with the other characters, Hawthorne first suggests the strength of Hester’s spirit in her appearance: she is described as having a “figure of perfect elegance, on a large scale” (47), with “a marked brow and deep black eyes” (48). The spectators at the marketplace, expecting to “behold her dimmed...were astonished...to perceive how her beauty shone out” (48). The author ironically likens Hester on the scaffold with her baby to the “image of Divine Maternity” (50). In short, her outward appearance hints that Hester will transform her situation from one of humiliation and sin into one of beauty and goodness. There is an indication of strength and defiance in her physical aspect.

The singular aspect of Hester’s appearance – “the point which drew all eyes” (48) – is the scarlet letter “A,” which quickly becomes the central symbol of the novel. At the beginning of the story, it is clearly a symbol of Hester’s shame and punishment. Placed upon her as a penalty, Hawthorne makes it clear that the scarlet letter punishes its wearer: “the spot never grew callous; it seemed, on the contrary, to grow more sensitive with daily torture” (77).

However, the scarlet letter very quickly comes to represent the shame and sin of the town at large. Being “a specimen of her delicate and imaginative skill” (73) in needlework, the scarlet letter, and the notion of sin which it symbolizes, manifests itself in the aspects of town life embellished by her handiwork. Her embroidery appears on “individuals dignified by rank [and] wealth” (74), corpses as well as mourners, and infants. Thus, Hawthorne suggests the infusion of sin in society. This is further indicated by the fact that Hester becomes the focal point of the town’s shame: “clergymen [pause] in the street to address words of exhortation...around the poor, sinful woman” (76); in church, she finds “herself the text of the discourse” (76). In wearing the scarlet letter, Hester Prynne becomes an emblem of general human transgression.

As thus a mark, not only of her own public shame, but also the private shame of others, the scarlet letter permits its wearer “knowledge of the hidden sin in other hearts” (77). Though “inclosing her in a sphere by herself” (48), the token admits her to a world of sympathetic understanding not otherwise possible. This ironic position held by Hester as one who is an outcast yet intimately connected with every member of society is further illustrated in her choice of home: a cottage “within the verge of the peninsula, but...out of the sphere of social activity” (72), situated just between civilization and wilderness. The cottage symbolizes her connection to sin, as embodied in the wilderness; at the same time, she maintains her connection with Puritan Boston, rather than escaping into the “dark, inscrutable forest...where the wildness of her nature” (71) would have free rein.

Hester’s singular strength lies in the fact that she is able to bear such a position. Her greatest challenge is accepting the punishment and shame of her sin without falling into anger or despair as either Chillingworth or Dimmesdale. In her struggle to keep Governor Bellingham from taking Pearl from her, even though “the warfare of Hester’s spirit, at its epoch, was perpetuated in Peal” (82) and thus the child serves always as a constant reminder to Hester of her sin and shame, it is apparent that Hester strives to reconcile herself with her transgression rather than cower from it. This fact is demonstrated further in her refusal to leave Boston, as well as her decision, years later, to resume “of her own free will” (240) the wearing of the scarlet letter.

Thus, Hester transcends the stigma of the scarlet letter through courage in undertaking – and wisdom in realizing that she must undertake – penitence. The scarlet letter transforms Hester into a woman of sympathy and humility, and through Hester’s patient acceptance of it, she transforms the scarlet letter as well, such that it is eventually “looked upon with awe, yet with reverence too” (240).

The Scarlet Letter is a dark romance spun around the notion of sin. Through detailing the choices made by the central characters, and the consequences thereof, the narrator provokes thought on how to handle oneself in a world in which sin is inevitable. Through the character of Roger Chillingworth, who transforms into the devil incarnate, Hawthorne demonstrates the danger in following the path of vice. Dimmesdale’s fragile life attests to the condition of moral weakness. Finally, Hester Prynne is a display of strength in the face of sin. Through the story of these three transgressors, Hawthorne suggests that, although humanity is tainted with sin, there is a possibility of transcending the invariable sinfulness of the mortal state to attain a deeper understanding of, and sympathy for, the human condition – this is the “sweet moral blossom” (43) of The Scarlet Letter.

SOURCES

Hawthorne, Nathaniel. The Scarlet Letter. New York: Modern Library, 2000.

Edna’s Failure to Mature – Suicide in Chopin’s The Awakening as Neither an Inevitable nor Triumphant Response to Societal Pressures

Edna Pontellier’s suicide is abrupt, affecting, and – above all – ambiguous. It may be viewed, on the one hand, as the inevitable defeat of a woman vainly striving for autonomy and self-agency within a patriarchal society. Conversely, Edna’s death can be seen as her triumphant escape from an oppressive world, an act of true independence. Critics and commentators of The Awakening have contended with both views; there are certainly many persuasive arguments for each. In the end, however, Edna’s decision to kill herself proves neither to be her inevitable defeat nor her triumphant escape. Because Edna’s “awakening” and subsequent death may be seen as a return to a mother figure, her suicide indicates the failure of society, which is unable to provide that mother figure, but also, more prominently, Edna’s own failure, as she is unable to rise above and better the society which nudges her to suicide. Rather than being reborn, as some critics have claimed, the regressive path of Edna Pontellier’s life indicates that she is un-born; her suicide ultimately conveys her inability to wholly mature.

The prime premise of the argument that Edna fails to mature is the notion of the sea as mother. In The Awakening, the “touch of the sea” is said to “[enfold] the body in its soft, close embrace” (34), evoking the image of a mother holding a child. Similarly, like a mother offering comfort, “the everlasting voice of the sea...[breaks] like a mournful lullaby” (14) as Edna cries through the night. The Gulf guides and encourages her as a mother would, furthermore, with “a loving but imperative entreaty” (31). Thus the language Chopin uses in describing the sea and Edna’s relationship to it consistently depicts the water as a maternal figure. As Dr. John Glendening has noted, furthermore, the novel, informed by the theory of evolution recently developed by Darwin, takes an “evolutionary perspective” (41) of the sea: as “the oceanic origin of life” (Glendening 54), the sea is, literally, a mother. Thus, Edna’s decision to kill herself by drowning can be read as her return to a maternal figure; the ocean, with its “musky odor of pinks” (Chopin 303) is, literally and figuratively, a womb.

To a great extent, Edna’s desire to take comfort, even through death, in a maternal figure indicates the failings of her society, which forces her into the unsatisfactory position of an object rather than a person. Her father, for instance, advocates the subordination of women: he advises Mr. Pontellier that “’authority...[is] what is needed...to manage a wife’” (186). That he is a Presbyterian minister as well as a colonel associates Edna’s father with the greater society at large; he becomes a representation of the societal aspects of military life and religion (perhaps suggesting a parallel between the two). Similarly, Leonce Pontellier, as a business man, represents the economic elements of society. His relationship with Edna - whom he looks and treats as one might “a valuable piece of personal property” (4) – highlights the notion that marriage is an economic arrangement. Robert Lebrun, the focus of romance within the novel, likewise treats Edna as a piece of property, stating that, as a married woman, she is “’not free’” (280). Thus, Edna’s society, the aspects of which – religion, marriage, economy, and love – are represented in various male figures, is thoroughly characterized by the objectification and subordination of women. This society is patriarchal – more pointedly, non-matriarchal. In such a world, Edna dares to shed what philosopher and historian Michel Foucalt termed the “social constructs” imposed upon her (Clark 342). She systematically casts off her various social identities – wife, mother, lover – until she is left without an identity, “like some new-born creature” (301). In such a state, her patriarchal society can offer her no mother, and thus she turns to the supreme matriarch, the sea. Edna’s suicide would seem, then, to be a triumph – ultimate freedom from the constraints of being a woman imposed by her patriarchal surroundings. In this naturalistic vein of thought, it can also be seen as a defeat: the tragic downfall of a woman endeavouring to escape her societal constraints.


However, these views of The Awakening, which depend on the premise that society’s constraints are impossible to escape in life, are undermined by the fact that, as the novel demonstrates, there are no unyielding limits, except those Edna erroneously perceives, confining her or womanhood at large. The best demonstration of this point is the character of Mademoiselle Reisz. Like Edna, she is an awakened woman, able “to echo...the feeling which constantly possessed [Edna]” (117). Like Edna, furthermore, Mademoiselle Reisz rejects the few roles traditionally available to women. Unlike Edna – and this is the crucial difference – Mademoiselle Reisz has developed a new role for herself – that of an artist – and has staunchly committed herself to it. In their survey of nineteenth-century female pianists, authors Debra Burns, Anita Jackson, and Connie Sturm write, “While women were encouraged to entertain their families and guests by playing beautiful music at the piano” – for example, as the Farival twins do – “they were equally discouraged...from taking their musical studies too seriously,” in the way that Mademoiselle Reisz does. Her music is not lady-like. Contrasting sharply with the piano-playing of Madame Ratignolle – who, conventionally, considers music merely “a means of brightening the home and making it attractive” (61) – Mademoiselle Reisz’s skill arouses “the very passions themselves” (66). Her music “shakes a man” (67), as one laudatory spectator exclaims. In brief, Mademoiselle Reisz not only defies the patriarchal system by refusing to embody any of the few roles available to her as a woman, she also creates a new role for herself as a serious female musician, thereby undermining the notion that awakened women (such as herself and Edna) have only the option of suicide to escape the apparent constraints of society. Edna’s suicide is not her inevitable defeat, then, but her failure to develop a role suitable for her.

Even the character of Madame Ratignolle, the very embodiment of the ideal of femininity that Edna is rebelling against, demonstrates the very malleability of the notion of womanhood which Edna fails to acknowledge in choosing suicide as the only alternative to the roles prescribed to her. Many readers are disinclined to consider Madame Ratignolle a strong female character; she is the superlative of those “mother-women...[who] idolized their children, worshipped their husbands, and esteemed it a holy privilege to efface themselves as individuals and grow wings as ministering angels” (Chopin 19). Despite this, however, as Kathleen Streater argues, Madame Ratignolle is indeed an “affirmation of feminist possibility” (Streater 406) by the fact alone that she plays a significant part in Edna’s awakening:

Madame Ratignolle...clasped [Edna’s hand] firmly and warmly. She even stroked it a little...The action was at first a little confusing to Edna, but she soon lent herself readily to the Creole’s gentle caress. She was not accustomed to an outward and spoken expression of affection, either in herself or in others...She was flushed and felt intoxicated with...the unaccustomed taste of candor. It muddled her like...a first breath of freedom. (Chopin 43-48)

Edna has only ever known “self-contained” (Chopin 44) women – that is an ideal of femininity she has been conditioned to by her Presbyterian society. Madame Ratignolle, as a Creole woman, is not self-contained: she openly flirts with Robert and speaks of her “accouchements” (23) with none of the prudery Edna is accustomed to and possesses at the beginning of the book. However, while Madame Ratignolle’s candidness and physical gestures awaken Edna to her own sensuality, inspiring her to confidence, Edna fails to wake to the deeper, absolute truth that if Creole women are different from her, and do not suffer at their society’s hands for that difference, then womanhood is a flexible ideal, open to the creation or the modification of “social constructs” (Clark 342) – womanhood is limitless. Therefore, one cannot say that Edna’s suicidal escape from the limitations placed on her within her society is a triumph. Edna fails, either in perceiving that these limitations are malleable, or, if she does perceive this fact, in acting on it. She lacks the insight and strength required to expand the boundaries of womanhood.


In this light, Adele’s advice to Edna to “think of the children” (Chopin 289) bears especial significance. The way in which Edna interprets the message indicates her failure to control her situation as an adult might, with foresight and a sense of responsibility – a failure which immediately precedes, and causes, her suicide. To “think of the children” is not necessarily to dwell on the constraints of motherhood – as Edna does, to her demise – but to consider the future – Edna’s own future as well as the future of womankind. Chopin herself believed that a woman’s experiential wisdom could be integrated into her family life; she wrote in her diary,

If it were possible for my husband...to come back to earth...I would unhesitatingly give up every thing that has come into my life since [he] left it...To do that, I would have to forget the past ten years of my growth – my real growth. But I could take back a little wisdom with me. (Whitson 62, emphasis added)

Despite these personal thoughts, however, Chopin takes heed to indicate that Edna does not need to return to roles she is unsatisfied with, for, as the book indicates, womanhood is malleable. Furthermore, The Awakening, by its mere existence, indicates its author’s conviction that a woman must share what she knows about the state of womanhood; as Streater contends, this belief relates to Adele’s advice regarding “the children,” for new ideas – as passed on by mothers, or authors, or teachers, or any other similarly positioned – are most likely to germinate in future generations (Streater 414-415). Edna’s interpretation of Adele’s advice, however, displays her immaturity. She understands and is absorbed by its shallow, surface meaning that she ought to consider Raoul and Etienne. Furthermore, rather like a self-centered adolescent, she thinks of herself and regards her children as “antagonists” (300) to her own well-being. Childishly, she refuses to take responsibility, either for herself, her children, or for the future of womankind. Finally, as if to emphasize that Edna has regressed into a childish, immature state, the book ends with her swimming to her death in a symbolic return to the womb. Rather than a rebirth, her suicide is more accurately an un-birth; she does not truly grow, though she has the knowledge to do so, but becomes a child again.

By writing The Awakening, Kate Chopin demonstrates a belief that women must assert the “little wisdom” (Whitson 62) they possess, as the author herself does. Drowning is not assertive: it is the inability to stay afloat, the inability to exert one’s life against the tides. The popular views that Edna’s suicide is an inevitable tragedy or – conversely but similarly – a triumphant escape from the constraints of society both fail to consider the malleability of womanhood that the book in question demonstrates. While The Awakening certainly criticizes, to a great extent, the patriarchal structure of late 19^th century society, thoroughly demonstrating its negative effect on women, through the characters of Mademoiselle Reisz and Madame Ratignolle, among others, the novel indicates that this patriarchal structure is not fixed. Edna fails, either in recognizing this fact, or in acting on it. Rather than grow through her awakening, she becomes a child, ultimately killing herself in a symbolic return to the mother because she lacks the strength to be an adult.

SOURCES

Burns, Debra Brubaker, Anita Jackson, and Connie Arrau Sturm. “Contributions of Selected British and American Women to Piano Pedagogy and Performance.” IAWM Journal 8.1 (2002). Web. 2 Jul. 2010.

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Chopin, Kate. The Awakening. Chicago: Herbert S. Stone & Co, 1899. Google Books. Web. 20 Jun. 2011.

Clark, Zoila. “The Bird That Came Out of the Cage: A Foucaldian Feminist Approach to Kate Chopin’s The Awakening.” Journal for Cultural Research 12.4 (2008): 335-347. Academic Search Complete. Web. 1 Jul. 2011

Glendening, J. “Evolution, Narcissism, and Maladaptation in Kate Chopin’s The Awakening.” American Literary Realism 43.1 (2010): 41-73. Arts and Humanities Citation Index. Web. 1 Jul. 2011.

Streater, Kathleen M. “Adele Ratignolle: Kate Chopin’s Feminist at Home in The Awakening.” Midwest Quarterly 48.1 (2007): 406-416. Academic Search Complete. Web. 2 Jul. 2011.

Whitson, Kathy J. “Chopin, Kate.” Encyclopedia of Feminist Literature. West Port: Greenwood Press, 2004. Google Books. Web. 1 Jul. 2011.