IDENTITY IN THE FRUIT OF THE TREE
A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE MASTER LITERARY STUDIES – LITERATURE AND CULTURE – ENGLISH
June 2014
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION………..3
CHAPTER 1: EDITH WHARTON AND GENDER……….5
CHAPTER 2: MARRIAGE AND DIVORCE………..13
CHAPTER 3: GENDERED MORALITY IN THE FRUIT OF THE TREE………22
CHAPTER 4: RISK TAKING AND GENDER………...29
INTRODUCTION
After the success of Edith Wharton’s bestselling second full-length novel The House of Mirth, expectations were high for her next novel. However, both the critical reception and the sales numbers for The Fruit of the Tree were somewhat disappointing. Though still enthusiastic about Wharton’s talents, critics who compared this novel to the previous one concluded, almost without exception, that The House of Mirth had been better.
One review at the time stated that “the shifting of attention from one to another of the principal characters, resulting in a lessening of the grip of the story, must be recorded as a positive fault (Tuttleton, Lauer and Murray 149). In a similar vein, Edith Wharton’s biographer, R.W.B. Lewis wrote that “[t]here are too many ‘subjects’ in the book” and concludes that “if Edith Wharton had clung to her first intention of calling the book ‘Justine Brent,’ and if she had written a tightly packed novella devoted to that young woman’s moral and psychological crisis, she might have composed one of her strongest shorter work of fiction” (181-2). Cynthia Wolff Griffin likewise wrote that “The Fruit of the Tree has enough raw material for three or four different novels” (139). Blake Nevius goes even further and refers to The Fruit of the Tree as “an earnest, rather dull, and unsuccessful novel” (99).
Much of the criticism of the novel also points to its structural complexity and the apparent lack of thematic focus. While it may be true that Wharton’s novel has a complex plot in which many different themes are combined into one daunting novel, this thesis will argue that this aspect of the text does not necessarily make the novel incoherent. Indeed, as my deeper argument will demonstrate, the novel has one overarching theme that functions as a common denominator across its various themes and that has so far been overlooked by many critics of Wharton’s work, namely gender. Hence, while critics like Nevius have thoroughly analysed the different characters in The Fruit of the Tree, most of them fail to see the significance of gender differences in this particular text.
However, in more recent years, there has been a renewed interest in some of the less popular works of Edith Wharton. Jessica Schubert McCarthy notes that “in the 2000s, lesser-read texts such as Summer and The Fruit of the Tree received increased critical attention” and that “critics also reconsidered Wharton’s portrayal of gender with regard to social class” (McCarthy 110). It is within this new movement that this thesis will situate itself. One of these more recent approaches to The Fruit of the Tree is represented by Teresa Tavares in her article “New Woman, New Men or What You Will in Edith Wharton’s The Fruit of the Tree”. She refreshingly discusses the novel from the context of gender, focusing on women’s work
and the New Woman. Tavares argues that whereas the character of Justine Brent is first portrayed as a New Woman, Wharton eventually “converts Justine into the figure that she had apparently killed – the Angel in the House” and she states that “Wharton ends up by denying her a place and a home of her own” (Tavares 9). This is to say that Tavares initially sees in Justine the figure of the New Woman, even though she is eventually thwarted in her rebellion and forced to return to her inferior state.
In what follows, I will be concerned to argue that both Wharton’s and Justine Brent’s position in the gender question are more complex than most critics have claimed. The
character and Whartone are not thwarted rebels who are trying to break gender restrictions and change the status quo of patriarchy, yet they are also the so-called Angel in the House, passive and suppressed. Rather, both Justine and Wharton find themselves in a very complex position in which they simultaneously confirm and defy female supposed “inferiority”. Moreover, it is this complex idea of gender relations that functions as an overarching thread throughout the novel.
Given my argument, I will begin this thesis by establishing Wharton’s position
towards the gender question both in her personal life and in her fiction. I will then move on to a careful evaluation of the several themes that seem so randomly assembled in the text in order to show that they are not in fact indicative of Wharton’s lack of thematic focus but rather function as mirrors for Wharton’s torn position on questions of gender. Gender and especially femininity, come together to form a thread that runs through the seemingly separate themes of marriage, morality and risk, which this thesis will re-evaluate.
To put the novel in the broader context of gender will not only lead to a better understanding of the work itself, but it might perhaps provide insights into Edith Wharton’s own struggle with her gender identity. As several critics have noted, “none of Edith
Wharton’s heroines contains as much of herself as does Justine” (Nevius 104). If Justine indeed functions as a mirror image of Edith Wharton, investigating Justine’s struggles and acknowledging the role her gender plays within these struggles may very well help to better understand the personal struggles of her creator. It is through a thorough investigation of gender differences within the various themes of the novel that I will attempt to shine a new light on Wharton’s heavily underrated and misunderstood novel, while perhaps going some distance towards unveiling the apparent mystery of Edith Wharton’s own thoughts and feelings about patriarchy and the tradition of female inferiority.
CHAPTER 1: EDITH WHARTON AND GENDER
1.1: WHARTON AND HER OWN GENDER IDENTITY
Before looking at the many ways in which gender provides an overarching explanation or interpretation of The Fruit of the Tree, it is important to look at who Edith Wharton was and what she might have thought of what we now refer to as the gender issue, both in her personal life and in her fictional works. Wharton cannot truly be described as a feminist of the varieties with which we are currently familiar (and never called herself one) and in her writing as in her personal statements and letters she constantly seems at odds with her own gender. Wharton found herself in a continuous struggle with her own gendered identity, on the one hand trying to transcend the social boundaries set for women – both those that applied to all women equally and those that applied to women of her class specifically – while simultaneously confirming those very boundaries and traditional gender roles for as long as she could disregard them. To illustrate the complexity of her position on questions concerning gender, Lewis and Lewis write in their introduction to The Letters of Edith Wharton that
it is, of course, woefully misleading to say of [Wharton], as one or two onlookers have been tempted to do that she hated, feared and distrusted women. Such an idea could derive only from an ignorance of her character and personal life, and from a doctrinaire misreading or simple nonreading of the work. […] On the other hand, it would be hardly less misleading to suggest that Edith Wharton was a feminist, at least in the current understanding of the term. (8)
To say that Wharton is ‘on the fence’ does not grasp the complexity of her position for it suggests that at one point she will choose a side, whereas she never does. She can be rightfully said to be on both sides of the fence simultaneously.
In many ways, Wharton was an independent woman, publishing her first full novel, The Valley of Decision at the age of 40. Though her first novel was a major success it was her second novel, The House of Mirth, that established her as a best-selling author. Though, to say that she is a feminist or a progressive woman because she was a professional and successful writer in a time when few women enjoyed professional careers, would be an unfounded conclusion.
Cynthia Griffin Wolf has explained that Wharton was “blessed with a life that must be called easy by any objective standard” (3). Given that Virginia Woolf argued that the main restriction for aspiring female writers was a financial one: “a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction”, Wharton’s social privilege is no small matter (2092). Financial restrictions never applied to Edith Wharton who was born to a mother and a father who both belonged to the most aristocratic echelons of New York and therefore always had had money (Griffin Wolf 3). Not only did she have a room of her own, she owned a whole house that she and her equally well-off husband inhabited in Massachusetts from the early days of her writing career. Likewise, Wharton’s influential connections abroad made it possible for her to travel and move to Europe at a time when very few people could do so and after World War I, Edith and Teddy Wharton purchased two “lovely, large homes in France” (Griffin Wolf 5).
It is clear then, that Wharton had no financial restrictions by virtue of her class and had all the necessary means to do as she liked and to write what she wanted. However, money cannot buy everything and there were definitely restrictions surrounding her gender from which her status provided no escape. Moreover, there were social restrictions specific to her class. As Griffin Wolf writes, “in such a world of inherited wealth and ease, living in a society that did not encourage men to work and that positively discouraged women from any
occupation save having babies and being a good hostess”, it was not logical for Edith
Wharton to become a novelist (5). Hence, whereas lower-class women lacked the means and therefore the ability to write, upper-class women lacked the motivation to do so. Wharton’s being a writer then was a break with the conventions for women of her class and in this regard, she could be said to be progressive. Indeed, her negative attitude towards the laziness and shallowness of many women of her class comes back to us in nearly all the upper-class female characters in her novel.
1.2: BESSY WESTMORE AND UPPER-CLASS FEMININITY
In The Fruit of the Tree, the character of Bessy Westmore is Wharton’s rendition of the class female. Bessy displays both features typical of women in general and of upper-class women in particular. Like many upper-upper-class women, her main concern is enjoying herself, receiving visitors and keeping up a good outward appearance. Throughout the novel, she is shown to be shallow and disinterested, lacking in idealism or in any willingness to
change the status quo. Amherst realises this not too long after marrying her, when she is reluctant to agree with his reform plans for the mills because it would mean her generous allowance would have to be cut: “Here at last was the bottom of her thought! It was always on the immediate pleasure that her soul hung: she had not enough imagination to look beyond, even in the projecting of her own desires” (Fruit 204). Wharton’s often unsubtle criticism of the upper-class woman often presents itself in ironized form through the character of Bessy. Bessy’s selfishness and her constant search for immediate pleasure are what define her as an upper-class woman. Wharton’s decision to name the horse that causes Bessy’s demise “Impulse” seems almost too obvious, as is the way that Bessy herself thrives on her impulse, and it is precisely these impulses that eventually destroy her. Moreover, Bessy’s near-fatal fall from her horse is an example of the inability of (upper-class) women to look past the here and now, the impulsive and the uncalculated, their inability to calculate risk and to see things in a broader perspective. Bessy had been ignored several warnings against riding Impulse,
warnings which carry a double meaning for it applies not only to the horse Impulse but also to impulse in the habitual meaning of the word. Yet in her wish to do as she pleases she
disregards the warning and fails to see the risks that are connected to “riding Impulse”, indirectly causing her own death.
This latter aspect of supposed female inferiority, the inability to look beyond the personal and to see the bigger picture, is one that is continuously stressed over the course of The Fruit of the Tree, especially by Amherst. When Bessy is confronted with and concerned for the case of Dillon, the injured factory worker, Amherst notices that “her enquiries did not extend from the particular to the general: her curiosity, as yet, was too purely personal and emotional to lead to any larger consideration of the question” (Fruit 104). This incident is amongst the several incidents that lead to his later conclusion that
one must never ask from women any view but the personal one, any measure of conduct but that of their own pains and pleasures. [His mother], indeed, had borne undauntedly enough the brunt of their earlier trials; but that was merely because, as she said, the mother’s instinct bade her heap all her private hopes on the great devouring altar of her son’s ambition; it was not because she had ever, in the very least, understood or sympathized with his aim. (Fruit 178-9)
Hence, Amherst’s ideology and his efforts to change and improve factory conditions are purely masculine and go far beyond what a woman could ever manage to grasp. The women
in the novel seem only concerned for that which immediately affects them, their husbands or their children, thriving purely on emotion. The men in the novel are, even in their idealism, purely rational.
This distinction between female emotion and male rationality is, however, not merely a distinction between the sexes; there is a clear message as to the inequality between rationality as the key to success and a tool with which important changes can be brought about, and emotion which is a mere distraction and a sign of weakness. This message, which is spread throughout the novel, becomes ever more clear to us when Wharton describes the effect of Justine’s absence on Amherst: “Once she had passed out of his life, it was easier for him to return to a dispassionate view of his situation, to see, and boldly confess to himself that he saw, the still higher duty of sticking to his task, instead of sacrificing it to any ideal of personal disinterestedness” (Fruit 583). Justine, with all her femininity and her personal and emotional approach to things, had clouded Amherst’s rationality and his goals. Once relieved of the presence of such a distracting and weak feminine figure, Amherst is once more able to do what has to be done and to pursue his success as a social reformer.
1.3: JUSTINE BRENT AND WHARTON: MASCULINE WOMEN
So if Wharton’s attitude towards her fellow women is strikingly judgmental and negative, how did she see herself? How did she go about breaking gender restrictions and attempting to be an independent professional female writer in a world and a milieu in which it was not expected or even desirable to do so? It is exactly in this area that the complexity of her position within the frame of gender questions lies. This is represented in her character Justine Brent, who, free from the shallowness of upper-class women, appears to be the only female character to escape Wharton’s critique of women. She is strong and has an opinion; she is both rational and compassionate; she has intelligence and passion; and she is the only woman to truly understand Amherst’s ideology. Even as Justine is lured into an upper-class milieu by her friend Bessy, she refuses to give herself in to the luxury and ease of upper-class life. Justine Brent is a woman with high moral standards, willing to sacrifice nearly anything to pursue what she believes to be right. Throughout the novel, Justine is the sole female
character in which one can hope to recognize the New Woman that had made its appearance in British fin-de-siècle literature. Moreover, in many ways, she resembles her creator. Blake Nevius states that
none of Edith Wharton’s heroines […] contains so much of herself as does Justine Brent. She stands in relation to her creator as Maggie Tulliver does to George Eliot, and for that reason, undoubtedly, she is more sympathetically presented than any other woman in Edith Wharton’s novels, not excepting Anna Leath. (104)
If Justine Brent really bears such a striking resemblance to Wharton herself, it would be tempting to take this as proof of some variety of feminism in Wharton’s work. Yet while it is true that both Wharton and Justine Brent are independent women who continuously break social restrictions and expectations, this cannot be taken as a proof of feminism or women rights activism. Lewis and Lewis state that “she had no interest or belief in institutional reform, and rather shied away from literary women who did, like the English novelist May Sinclair”. (8)
For Wharton, the key to being an independent woman and to breaking convention lies in simultaneously confirming and transcending traditional gender boundaries, not in trying to change the social system of gender inequality. At the same time, moreover, she claimed that the key to breaking the restrictions and stigmas surrounding women writers is to not be womanlike. Linda Wagner-Martin explains that “Wharton, of course, had opinions about women’s writing. She believed that if she were to become a truly significant literary figure, she must not write as if she were a woman” (243). These beliefs are indicative for her position in the woman question as portrayed both in her personal letters and her writing. In order to cut herself loose from gender restrictions, Wharton argued, a woman had to be less like a woman. The idea that women needed to be more masculine in order to be a better, stronger and more independent woman is an argument that confirms rather than challenges ideas on male superiority that form the very base of gender inequality. In this regard, it is useful to examine how the idea of the “masculine” woman occurs both in Wharton’s private letters and in The Fruit of the Tree. In a letter to Robert Grant, written on November 19, 1907, Wharton wrote:
I conceive my subjects like a man – that is, rather more architectonically & dramatically than most women – & then execute them like a woman; or rather, I sacrifice, to my desire for construction & breadth, the small incidental effects that women have always excelled in, the episodical characterisation, I mean. (Letters 24)
Wharton sees herself as more of a masculine writer, because she “conceives her subjects like a man”. She was well aware of the prejudices that surrounded women writers and knew all too well that the only way she could break free from those prejudices and be taken seriously as a professional novelist was to make sure not to fall into their category, hence to not write too emotionally.
As I mentioned earlier, Justine Brent very much resembled her creator. She too is critical of the laziness and shallowness of the upper-class, and refuses to adapt to upper-class life even as she is given the opportunity to do so through her relations with Bessy and
Amherst. An important difference between Wharton and Justine that should be noted,
however, is that Justine has the disputable privilege of being born into the middle-class. This enables her to take the position of the critical outsider while simultaneously enjoying the financial advantages of the upper-class, first through her relations with Bessy, and later through her marriage with Amherst who, as Bessy’s widower, has inherited her money and status. Hence the social restrictions and expectations that applied to upper-class women does not apply to Justine.
Wharton, on the other hand, was born into the upper-class and though she certainly benefited from the financial implications of her status, for they gave her the money and the room of her own that Virginia Woolf thought to be the key to writing, she had to deal with the restrictions and expectations that her heroine Justine could so conveniently ignore. Being born and still finding herself in the very milieu that she criticized, Wharton finds herself in a position that is once more very complex. Her class status was her origin; it was what enabled her to live in luxury and to focus on her writing without financial worries; it was her milieu and contained many of her friends and acquaintances; it was what helped Wharton to rise to success; and it was what enabled her connections abroad and her trips to Europe. Yet as a woman, she had to be critical of or at least personally break away from the passive and lazy behaviour of her fellow upper-class women in order to establish herself as a professional writer and to do as she liked.
A similar thing happens to Justine Brent, who transcends the realm of emotion and feeling that The Fruit of the Tree so often emphasizes as the realm of women. Amherst reflects that his marriage to Justine lead him to
the blissful discovery that woman can think as well as feel, that there are beings of the ornamental sex in whom brain and heart have so enlarged each other that their emotions are as clear as thought, their thoughts as warm as emotions—this
discovery had had the effect of making him discard his former summary conception of woman as a bundle of inconsequent impulses, and admit her at a stroke to full mental equality with her lord. (Fruit 559-60)
This is a very promising discovery for it seems as though at long last, Wharton admits that women can be just as good, clever and rational as men. Rather than being “ornamental” or “a bundle of inconsequent impulses”, Justine has proven that she can be both rational and emotional and that those two components, when in the right proportions, can reinforce rather than weaken each other.
Had Wharton left it at this statement, it would have been fair to say that Justine was her version of the new woman. A valid argument could even have been made that, since Justine can be said to mirror Wharton’s own personality, Wharton saw herself as a new woman too. Amherst, however, ends his pondering over Justine’s personality with a statement that immediately disproves these arguments: “The result of this act of manumission was, that in judging Justine he could no longer allow for what was purely feminine in her conduct” (Fruit 560). The choice of the word “manumission” is interesting, since it refers not only to emancipation but also to being freed of slavery and it thus implies an awareness of the suppression of women. Yet by stating that he can no longer judge Justine “for what was purely feminine in her conduct”, Amherst is once more saying that she is not necessarily an emancipated woman but rather a woman who has masculine traits. It is only by virtue of her masculinity that she transcends the impulsive, emotional and narrow view of her fellow women. Here again then, Wharton reinforces traditional sexist notions on male superiority rather than challenging them.
Whereas feminists of and after her time have recognized gender restrictions and male superiority as made up and maintained by a male-dominated society, Wharton seemed to think of these ideas as the actual shortcomings of her sex. Lewis write that “for her part she believed ‘women were made for pleasure and procreation.’ As on other occasions, and
considering especially her own role in life, one cannot be entirely sure of the tone of a remark like that. All things considered, it probably represented less a divergence from her former sympathy with independent-minded women than an acknowledgement of a somewhat bitter fact of life” (Lewis 486).
Whether it was because she believed in these gender roles herself or because she felt like they were insurmountable facts of life, Wharton chose to overcome these apparent shortcomings on a personal level by trying to be more masculine, thereby implying that the
masculine is in fact superior to the feminine. It is of little importance whether Wharton did so merely to be accepted in a male-dominated society or because she agreed with the stigmas of this society, and we shall never know her motives for making such statements. What is more important is that she did make them and can, therefore, hardly be called a feminist. She does the same thing to her heroine by implying that the only reason for Justine’s ability to break from traditional gender distinctions is that she has masculine characteristics.
To conclude then, Wharton’s complex position in the gender question possibly comes from her wish to at one hand transcend traditional gender roles while simultaneously justifying and reinforcing gender inequality. Rather than challenging the idea of male superiority, she confirmed it and then tried to overcome it by presenting herself in a more masculine way.
CHAPTER 2: MARRIAGE AND DIVORCE
2.1: EDITH WHARTON AND MARRIAGE
Before taking a look at the themes of marriage and divorce in The Fruit of the Tree it is very useful to examine the marriage ‘market’ of the time, along with Wharton’s experiences with and attitude towards marriage. Edith Jones was introduced to this marriage market at the young age of seventeen as, what Pamela Knights calls “an awkward debutante” in 1879. She married Edward (Teddy) Wharton in 1885 and stayed married to him until 1913.
It was not a happy marriage and in her own biography, A Backwards Glance, she wrote little about her marriage to Teddy, mentioning him only occasionally, merely as a character in her stories about other people and places, as one who happened to be with her during those twenty-eight years. She speaks a little of their respective families, their early days of marriage, their financial troubles and finally of Teddy’s declining mental health. Pamela Knights says of the marriage market in Wharton’s time that “for many women of all classes, marriage seemed the route to economic security” and though Edith Jones inherited a fortune of her own, this equally applied to her too. R.W.B. Lewis writes that
Henry James would say that in marrying Teddy Wharton, Edith had done “an almost—or rather an utterly---inconceivable thing.” By that time most of Edith’s friends felt much the same way; and yet, considering her situation in 1885, her
acceptance of Teddy is understandable enough. […] As 1884 gave way to 1885, Edith found herself entering her twenty-fourth year, dangerously close to the age beyond which the young women of her set became steadily less marriageable. And whatever her innermost opinion of the ways of New York social life, it had been drilled into her that marriage was the only real goal of the debutante. (52)
The couple shared their love for traveling and connected well as travel partners. However, from the moment she started writing professionally and found herself in an ever-growing milieu of cultured intellectuals, she became “stifled by her husband’s insensitivity to her intellectual interests” (Griffin Wolff 52). Though she tried compensating for this by seeking “congenial friends whose interests more closely paralleled her own” she soon found that “intellectual friendships could not solve the essential problem (Griffin Wolff 52). These
intellectual differences were, however, only part of the reason for Wharton’s unhappiness in her marriage. Griffin Wolff claims that
this marriage eventually brought disaster; any marriage would have. […] Edith Wharton could not be a wife without feeling a flood of unsatisfied, unreckoned emotional demands from all those earlier selves; and the anguish of her adulthood turned to the modalities of her childhood as ways of finding representation for the dilemma. (51)
Add to these unresolved emotional problems and Edith Wharton’s crisis of sexual intimacy Teddy’s own mental problems and it becomes obvious that their marriage was doomed to fail.
Teddy had a mental condition that would now be diagnosed as manic depression, and the worst part about his condition was that “Edith Wharton’s success aggravated the
symptoms of her husband’s disorder, and for five years the marriage was a bitter irritation to Teddy and a constant drain on his wife” (Griffin Wolff 221). Though she was very respectful and nearly secretive about her marriage to Teddy in her own autobiography, she does casually drop hints on the burden of Teddy’s illness. And though she is never explicit in her
autobiography, Edith Wharton’s private letters give us better insight into the extent to which she felt imprisoned in her marriage. In a 1910 letter to W. Morton Fullerton, with whom Edith Wharton is known to have had an affair, she expresses her despair over his declining mental health:
The Whartons adroitly refuse to recognize the strain I am under, & the impossibility, for a person with nerves strung like mine, to go on leading indefinitely the
life I am now leading. […] He has only one thought – to be with me all day, every day. If I try to escape, he will follow; if I protest, & say I want to be left alone, they will say that I deserted him when he was ill. […] What, in these conditions, do you advise? Walter Berry wants me to ask for a separation – but that seems to me to have become impossible now. (Letters 215)
Apparently, despite the extent of her unhappiness and the misery that came from her marriage to Teddy Wharton, Edith Wharton did not yet see divorce as an actual option. Her chance came when she he could prove Teddy’s adultery but she remained rather secretive about her divorce, and wary of the social stigma that surrounded the subject.
In another letter to W. Morton Fullerton, she tells him: “you did absolutely right in telling the reporters that you knew nothing of my divorce. – I have told all my friends of it, & that is sufficient. […] It’s a tiresome moment to traverse – but no more. – And thanks for doing just what you did” (Letters 300-1). Her wish to let as few people as possible know about her divorce and the fact that she does not write of it in her autobiography would indicate that it was a sensitive subject for her, not so much because she regretted it, since her divorce gave her freedom and a new chance at happiness. Rather, it was a sensitive issue because of what society in her time thought of it. Knights states that “diverse groups lamented the rising scale of material ambitions in wedded life and pointed to soaring divorce figures as symptoms of social contagion” (230). Though others “welcomed the changes, as offering hope for individuals for whom the bonds had become intolerable” (Knights 231), Edith Wharton’s upbringing and social milieu adhered to the first of these two positions. Lewis writes that “the decision to divorce was the most painful one Edith Wharton was ever required to make. […] [She was] exceedingly apprehensive about the figure she would cut as a divorced woman in the social circles back home” (333). Luckily for Edith Wharton, the divorce did not lead to scandal. Letters of support and understanding flowed in and she was a respected divorcee who was once more able to enjoy her freedom and independence. It was not so much the public and the social world around her then, but rather Wharton herself who condemned the issue.
Concluding this summary of Wharton’s married and divorced life, it seems fair to say that Edith Wharton was somewhat of an expert on being unhappily married and knew first-hand how limiting an unhappy marriage can be, especially for women. It is therefore not surprising that difficulties surrounding marriage should be a recurrent theme in many of her novels. In The Fruit of the Tree we find several marriages and especially remarriages as well as marriage proposals, the two central marriages in the novel being those of Bessy and Amherst and, after Bessy’s tragic death, that of Justine and Amherst. These two marriages could not have been more different from each other, mainly because of the major differences between the female characters of Bessy and Justine. Keeping in mind Wharton’s own
unhappy marriage, which she still found herself in the middle of during the writing and publication of the novel, the rest of this chapter will explore these two different marriages and focus on the male and female motives for and perspectives on marriage.
Amherst and Bessy’s marriage is one that cannot be called purely romantic. Many personal interests exist for all the parties involved. Bessy, who has inherited not only her deceased husband’s wealth but also the ownership of the mills sees in Amherst a man who can function as her deceased husband’s successor in the ownership of the mills, which would allow her to leave everything business-related to him and to return to her beloved life of ease and leisure. Moreover, Amherst’s rebellion initially sparks in her a sort of admiration. Amherst takes fun-loving and impulsive Bessy with him in what she seems to perceive as an adventurous ride. A key point in the beginning of their relationship is when Amherst takes Bessy sledding with the factory workers.
There was a delicious pang in being thus caught back to life; and as the sled stopped, and he sprang to his feet, he still glowed with the sensation. Bessy too was under the spell. In the dusk of the beech-grove where they had landed, he could barely
distinguish her features; but her eyes shone on him, and he heard her quick breathing as he stooped to help her to her feet. “Oh, how beautiful – it’s the only thing better than a good gallop!” (Fruit 134)
This is very likely the moment in which Bessy falls in love with Amherst, or rather, with the escape he provides from the strict rulings of her father and the other men in her life. It would be safe to say then, that Bessy’s motives for this marriage are largely based on her impulses and emotions, as well as on her desire for fun and leisure, in other words, allof the things that define her as a typical upper-class woman. What she lacks though, to Amherst’s bitter
disappointment, is any real and lasting dedication to Amherst’s cause and ideals. To her, his activism and rebellion were just a fresh wind of air that starts to bore her as soon as the novelty of it has passed. She loses more and more interest in the “business” part of Amherst’s life and is unsatisfied about his absence and the financial sacrifices she has to make to allow him to do his reform work. This again reinforces her shallowness and her impulsiveness but also her inability to look beyond the here and now; to see the bigger picture. These are exactly those things that I have established in the previous chapter to be explicitly feminine.
Yet whereas Bessy fails to see the bigger picture in her motives for marrying Amherst, this is compensated for by Amherst himself, whose motives are highly rational. Though he initially admits to being enchanted by Bessy’s beauty and femininity, he soon refers to this enchantment as his personal weakness towards women. He “clears his mind”, so to speak, and soon the rationality of marrying Bessy becomes clear again. By marrying Bessy, he will gain
her wealth, status and, most importantly, the control of the mills through her ownership; all the necessary means for acting out his ideals of social reform.
Their relationship beginss exactly at the right moment, moreover, directly after his dismissal at the Westmore mills for being too rebellious. He admits that “he had not, assuredly, married her because of Westmore; but he would scarcely have contemplated marriage with a rich woman unless the source of her wealth had offered him some such opportunity as Westmore presented” (Fruit 184). Amherst uses this argument in order to convince himself that he did not use Bessy, but rather married her to help her use her power and wealth in what he believes to be an effective way. However, the words he chooses to express this speak for themselves. Marrying Bessy is something that he contemplates and his decision to do so has everything to do with the opportunity that Westmore presents. There is no emotion or romance in his words, and his proposal is purely rational and economical.
Later, as Bessy loses interest in his work and ambitions, Amherst loses interest in her as well. His visits to Lynbrook, where Bessy lives comfortably, become less and less frequent and, when he does visit, it is merely to discuss business. For him, the only way he can think of to save his marriage is to induce Bessy to be more involved in his ambitions and career, given that he wants her more as a business partner than as a romantic partner. When trying to explain this to Justine, she replies: “Yes; but you must remember that it’s against all her habits – and against the point of view of every one about her – that she should lead that kind of life; and meanwhile, isn’t it expedient that you should, a little more, lead hers?” (Fruit 254) However, Amherst fails to see her point of view and gets frustrated by her failure to understand the importance of Bessy’s involvement at the mills. Amherst’s motives for this marriage are, from the start, rational and focused on the bigger picture, hence he sees only sees a business opportunity and a large stepping stone for his reform work. His motives are, therefore, stereotypically masculine according to Wharton’s definition.
It is difficult to discern whether this miserable marriage would have eventually led to a divorce, for Bessy passes away before it could ever come so far. However, a very significant conversation between family friend Mrs Ansell and Bessy’s father, Mr Langhope helps to shed light on the female and male perspectives on divorce as presented in the novel. As they discuss Bessy and Amherst’s future and especially the future of Bessy’s inherited fortune, Mr Langhope proposes divorce as a solution to their problems:
She raised her eyes to his face. “Do you really mean that you want Bessy to get a divorce?” “Your style is elliptical, dear Maria; but divorce does not frighten me very
much. It has grown as painless as modern dentistry.” “It’s our odious insensibility that makes it so!” Mr. Langhope received this with the mildness of suspended judgment. “How else, then, do you propose that Bessy shall save what is left of her money?” “I would rather see her save what is left of her happiness. Bessy will never be happy in the new way”. (Fruit 280)
Wharton portrays a very modern view of divorce by calling it “as painless as modern dentistry”, even though we have seen in the beginning of this chapter that this view was not necessarily accepted by Wharton herself nor by the public. What is more interesting though, is the difference in argument between Mrs. Ansell and Mr. Langhope and its adherence to the rational male and emotional female dichotomy. Whereas Langhope’s motives for being in favour of Bessy’s divorce are purely rational and economical, Mrs Ansell represents the emotional part of the divorce question. Once more, Wharton emphasises the apparent
impossibility of a mutual understanding or reconciliation between men and women, while this fictional dilemma mirrors Edith Wharton’s own later struggle between the rationality and the business side of her decision to divorce Teddy (for he restricted her professionally) and the emotional difficulty that she would experience as a result of that decision. This struggle might well be seen as a struggle between her masculine and feminine side. Though admittedly The Fruit of the Tree was written six years before her actual divorce, it must have been on her mind for much longer and might prove another layer to the dilemma presented here by Langhope and Ansell.
CHAPTER 2.3: JUSTINE AND AMHERST
Bessy and Amherst’s marriage is very different to that of Amherst and Justine Brent. First, Justine has a completely different attitude towards marriage than most of her fellow women. Aware of the expectation that women of her age will marry a ‘good’ man (i.e. one that will provide financial stability), she discusses her options with Bessy. After Justine tells Bessy that she likes her life and her work in the hospital and is not looking to change it just for the sake of marriage, Bessy replies “That’s all very well now – you see the romantic side of it, but in time you’ll want something else; you’ll want a husband and children – a life of your own” (Fruit 232). Bessy writes off Justine’s modern ideas on marriage as the ‘romantic’ ideas of a naïve young girl, expecting her to change her mind once she ‘grows up’. It is striking that it is
unhappily married Bessy who should make this statement, and Justine seems to think similarly:
It was strange to have marriage urged on her by a woman who had twice failed to find happiness in it – strange, and yet how vivid a sign that, even to a nature absorbed in its personal demands, not happiness but completeness is the inmost craving! “A life of your own” – that was what even Bessy, in her obscure way, felt to be best worth suffering for. And how was a spirit like Justine’s, thrilling with youth and sympathy, to conceive of an isolated existence as the final answer to that craving? A life
circumscribed by one’s own poor personal consciousness would not be life at all. (Fruit 232-3)
Justine once more places herself in the character of the New Woman, one who would rather be alone than unhappy; rather independent than ‘complete’; who would pick excitement and adventure over financial and social security. She finds herself unable to understand how Bessy could think that a woman’s ultimate goal is to be married, regardless of whether or not marriage would enlarge her happiness. When after some consideration she refuses Dr Wyant’s proposal, Justine seems happy initially, especially when she discovers Wyant’s drug addiction and realises she might have escaped from a disastrous marriage to an addict. Still, when considering Mrs Ansell’s position, the older, single family friend of Bessy and her father, she starts to feel a little frightened about what her unmarried future might bring her:
Perhaps, for a woman alone in the world, without the power and opportunity that money gives, there was no alternative between letting one’s individuality harden into a small dry nucleus of egoism, or diffuse itself thus in the interstices of other lives – and there fell upon Justine the chill thought that just such a future might await her if she missed the liberating gift of personal happiness. (Fruit 347)
Justine doubts and openly challenges the traditional marriage market and aims instead for a more romantic and satisfactory marriage. Yet through these thoughts about Mrs Ansell she also shows awareness of the risks and consequences of non-conformity. The dilemma is quite complex: should she marry a ‘good man’ that she does not necessarily love but who will
provide (economic and social) security or should she stick to her ideals and risk staying alone forever, a fate that might proof to be equally miserable?
Fortunately, this is a choice that she does not need to make, because John Amherst presents himself as the perfect match for Justine Brent. Their ideologies and interests are very similar and the marriage is called a “marriage of minds” more than once. Moreover, they are both outsiders in the social milieu that they have entered through their association with Bessy and her family. Both humble and hardworking middle-class people, they find in each other a partner in their negative attitude towards the shallowness and laziness of upper-class life.
Right before he proposes to Justine, Amherst reflects on the strong connection he feels: “All within him was flood-tide: this was the top of life, surely – to feel her alike in his brain and his pulses, to steep sight and hearing in the joy of her nearness, while all the while thought spoke clear: ‘This is the mate of your mind’ (Fruit 464). However, it is once more only in his mind, and therefore his masculine aspect that he feels this way. Just before his proposal, Amherst admits to himself that “oddly enough, he had never thought of her
marrying – but now that he heard the possibility questioned, he felt a disagreeable conviction of its inevitableness” (Fruit 449). Moreover, his proposal to Justine sounds more like a business proposal than a romantic declaration of his love for her. He tells her in very business-like terms that she would benefit from marrying him. Moreover, he does not even specifically ask her to marry him, he merely hints at it: “Wouldn’t you marry, if it gave you the chance to do what you say – if it offered you hard work, and the opportunity to make things better…for a great many people…as no one but yourself could do it?” (Fruit 464-5). As an apology or explanation for his unconventional way of proposing he explains: “I only meant – I was trying to make my work recommend me…” (466). There is a very noticeable difference between this proposal and his initial attitude towards Bessy. Whereas the latter seemed to bewitch him with her immense beauty, he has never thought of Justine as desirable or physically attractive before. To Amherst, she is always friend and soul mate and marriage is merely a tool to strengthen their professional bond, to make them a winning team in social reform.
Justine’s attitude towards this marriage is rather two-sided, which is not surprising since, as I have established in the previous chapter, her gender identity is two-sided as well. On the one hand, she too values the reasonable and business side of their marriage, for it enables her to do the work she loves in an environment that provides all kinds of new opportunities. This reflects the masculine side of her character, the side that makes her different and seemingly more progressive than most other women. However, she cannot completely break free from traditional femininity, something which is illustrated by her
response to Amherst strange marriage and business proposal: “I’m really just like other women, you know – I shall like it because it’s your work” (Fruit 466).
It is peculiar for a woman so unconventional and so radically progressive to claim to be “just like other women”, hence her statement seems somewhat ironic, for it is clear that she is nothing like other women. Yet if we see this ambiguous position in the larger context of Wharton’s divided thoughts on female sexuality and gender and consider the fact that Justine can be said to mirror her author, her ambiguous behaviour becomes much more explicable. In marriage, as in the rest of her life, Justine accepts and adheres to some of the gender roles that are imposed on her while simultaneously breaking with other traditions. Moreover, we need to take into consideration that she is still a woman, be it one with masculine traits.
Wharton has never denied the idea of innate differences between the genders, let alone challenged them. Much like Wharton, Justine is not a feminist and she too never challenges traditional gender expectations. On the contrary, Justine is, in all her emotion and softness and caring a very typical woman. What she seeks is not gender equality but rather the ability to do good by her own standards. Her masculine ability to be practical and reasonable does not necessarily weaken her femininity. Moreover, to repeat a quote that occurs in the previous chapter, in women like Justine “their emotions are as clear as thought, their thoughts as warm as emotions” (Fruit 560). She is neither a traditional woman nor a feminist or a new woman. However, she is also not “on the fence”, she is simultaneously traditional and progressive, rational and emotional, feminine and masculine. Though this two-sided position might be reason for critics to claim that Wharton’s work lacks focus or clarity, it can also be seen as a mirror for Wharton’s own complex attitude towards the woman question in general, and towards the marriage question more specifically.
CHAPTER 3: GENDERED MORALITY IN THE FRUIT OF THE TREE
3.1: MORALITY AS A THEME IN THE FRUIT OF THE TREE
In his critique of The Fruit of the Tree¸ Blake Nevius states that “the story is diverted from its muckraking pretensions by the complicated moral problem which arises out of the relations of the four principal characters; and as this interest usurps the center of attention, Justine takes over from John Amherst as protagonist” (100). For Nevius, the theme of morality that is so clearly present in The Fruit of the Tree is (yet another) distraction to what he believes to be the basic plot and the real protagonist. Though he does admit that “there is a repetition of the thematic pattern which provides a certain formal unity as well as a major stroke of dramatic irony” he adds that “the structural weakness of the novel cannot be easily extenuated” (Nevius 101).
Though he is correct in stating that the theme of morality adds yet another layer to an already quite complicated plot, this theme does not necessarily divert from the general theme and atmosphere of the novel. It is striking that in his whole analysis of the novel Blake Nevius never mentions gender as a theme or an explanation for differences between male and female characters. It is in the broader context of gender differences that the theme of morality finds its place as part of a bigger structure of the gender question in The Fruit of the Tree.
There are two separate but related storylines in which the question of morality plays a major role. The first of these, Amherst’s industrial reform, presents Wharton’s example of male morality. The other, Justine’s mercy killing of her friend Bessy, is an example of the female perspective on morality. Not only do men and women in The Fruit of the Tree have different ideas of what is moral, an ever bigger gap lies in their different motives for pursuing what they believe is morally right. Through an analysis of these different gendered
perspectives on morality, this chapter will show how morality as a subject fits in with the overarching theme of The Fruit of the Tree, thereby reinforcing rather than obscuring its plot.
CHAPTER 3.1: INDUSTRIAL REFORM AND MALE MORALITY
Industrial reform is one of the most prominent themes or story arcs of Wharton’s The Fruit of the Tree, and in order to acquire knowledge on the subject, Edith Wharton visited the Plunkett
Cotton Mills in Adams, Massachusetts. However, “owing to an uncommunicative guide and the incredible din of the machines she was able to gather little information. Readers of the serial version later wrote to Wharton to point out the errors that she had made, and she corrected her mistakes for the published volume” (Campbell xiv). As a result, her factual mistakes led to a good deal of critique and Nevius, for example, claims that “[Wharton’s] investigation of one of the basic social problems of the day, the responsibility of the factory owner for the physical and moral welfare of his employees, is conducted half-heartedly at best” (100). However, Nevius fails to see the broader implications of the industrial reform theme and its link to gendered morality. Though it is true that the factual report on industrial reform that Wharton presents is lacking complexity and factual correctness, it is much more interesting to look at the moral questions raised by the theme of social reform.
In Labor and Socialism, William M. Dick writes mostly of the political side of social reform and socialism, emphasizing the connection between the political Socialist Party in America and the trade unions. Though both the Socialist Party and trade unions existed at the time that Edith Wharton wrote The Fruit of the Tree, there is no mention of national politics or trade unions in her novel. Wharton’s fictional world is much more local and this is yet another indication that it is not the factual state of industrial reform that she wanted to report on, but rather the implicit questions of morality and moral responsibility connected to it. Moreover, the question of morality in industrial reform functions as a mirror of the specific masculine perspective on moral responsibility, and indeed, this storyline has a masculine protagonist, John Amherst. In the first part of the novel he is the assistant manager of the Westmore mills and seemingly the only person to be concerned about the state of affairs at said mills and the treatment of its workers. In order to speak up for them, he has to risk his job and with it the income that he and his mother survive on. At first sight it might seem as though in doing so he chooses his ideas of morality over his financial stability, something which would have been highly irrational. However, Amherst has made it very clear that he is
no one-sided idealist. He felt keenly the growing complexity of the relation between employer and worker, the seeming hopelessness of permanently harmonizing their claims, the recurring necessity of fresh compromises and adjustments. He hated rant, demagogy, the rash formulation of emotional theories; and […] bad logic. (Fruit 47)
and calculated plan for industrial reform, and he regrets this decision as soon as it is made it. Amherst, who “had hitherto felt himself secured by his insight and self-control from the emotional errors besetting the way of the enthusiast”, bitterly admits to himself that “he had stumbled into the first sentimental trap in his path, and tricked his eyes with a Christmas-chromo vision of lovely woman dispensing coals and blankets” (Fruit 94). It is Bessy and her enchanting charm that has fooled him and led him astray from his actual plan. Emotion and irrationality are once more pictured as purely feminine and, more importantly, inferior to reason. Amherst’s sense of morality is in no way emotional or even personal, nor are his motives. His idea of a factory with better working conditions is not so much born from pity for the victims but rather from a rationalized business-like theory. His personal example is
Louis Duplain, the overseer who had worked at his trade in Europe as well as in America, and who united with more manual skill, and a greater nearness to the workman’s standpoint, all Amherst’s enthusiasm for the experiments in social betterment that were making in some of the England continental factories. (Fruit 55)
Though Amherst does have this “enthusiasm for experiments in social betterment”, his motives for pursuing this enthusiasm are born of his ambition to become as successful as a social reformer as his apparent idol Louis Duplain. William M. Dick reports that “Bernard Rose, a frequent writer in the garment workers’ journal, believed that [socialists] stood on a ‘low moral plane’ and went into politics merely to fill their pockets” (Dick 37).
This argument can be said to apply to John Amherst too, though he is not strictly a politician. In pursuing what he believes to be his moral responsibility, Amherst does not just satisfy his own conscience. Rather, he sees in his vision a business opportunity and a unique chance to not only lead but own the mills and make money from them while simultaneously getting closer to the workers. Hence his plain is to gain popularity while gaining status and earning money, thereby simultaneously satisfying his moral and his financial needs. It might be too harsh to claim that his sense of morality is false, however, his sense of morality, or rather his motive for pursuing it, is very much masculine, rational and professional.
Nevius claims that in Wharton’s work “the morality of an act is evaluated in terms of its cost to others. […] The individual justification is forced to yield to the larger question of the act’s effect on the social structure as a whole” (111-2). Though these claims are definitely true for John Amherst’s morality, they do not at all apply to the moral views of for example
Justine. What Nevius fails to see here, as in the rest of his analysis of the novel, is the importance of gender in discussing these themes. The perspective on morality that he
illustrates is the masculine perspective and it differs greatly from the feminine perspective that I will discuss in the next section of this chapter.
It is important to note that, when speaking and thinking of moral responsibility and social reform, Amherst always discusses in general and broad terms. While constantly
accusing the women around him of failing to see the greater picture of his work, it is Amherst who fails to see the personal and emotional side of it. This becomes very much apparent once he is confronted with Justine’s mercy killing of his late wife Bessy when he “finally reveals his conservatism and the contradiction between his theory and his actual beliefs and behavior” (Tavares 8). His ideas on morality are mainly theoretical and only apply to the impersonal and the general. Once asked to apply these very beliefs to a situation that is much more personal and emotional, we see his inability to do so. Hence the image that Wharton’s presents of masculine morality is that of an ambition-driven theoretical and general image, free from all irrationality and emotion. Moreover, this is what Amherst prides himself on. He is proud that he can, by virtue of his gender, see the bigger picture and does not dwell in the personal realm that he deems irrelevant. However, his final inability to fully understand and justify Justine’s act, he reveals the shortcomings of this theoretical type of morality.
CHAPTER 3.2: EUTHANASIA AND FEMALE MORALITY
Whereas male morality is represented by Amherst through his idealism and industrial reform, the female equivalent of this storyline is found in Justine’s mercy killing of her friend Bessy. Though Amherst’s ideas concerning industrial reform were considered to be progressive by some of his contemporaries, this is nothing compared to the public opinion on a subject like euthanasia. If euthanasia is still a sensitive and controversial subject today, it was even more so in Wharton’s early twentieth century world. In A Merciful End: The Euthanasia Movement
in Modern America, Ian Dowbiggin writes that though there are nineteenth century accounts
of professional doctors performing euthanasia in cases that were deemed incurable and hopeless, this became more rare towards the end of the century and the beginning of the twentieth century, which is the period in which The Fruit of the Tree was written. He states that,
organized medicine’s opposition to active euthanasia became stronger near the end of the nineteenth century as physicians grew more therapeutically optimistic. Hospitals ceased being charitable and religious institutions for poor and dying patients and became medical institutions dedicated to curing disease and the scientific study of illness. (6)
Dowbiggin goes on to explains that euthanasia had become n some ways a sign of incapability of a doctor. A good doctor did not need euthanasia for he could cure diseases. This is certainly the case in The Fruit of the Tree, and Dr Wyant is a perfect example of the optimistic
physicians that Dowbiggin describes. Rather than admitting the hopelessness of Bessy’s case, he sees in her his ideal opportunity to prove his professional capacities given that curing this patient would be thought miraculous and would open many doors to him professionally. His opposition to euthanasia is, therefore, not born of morality or personal belief, but it is rather, purely self-motivated. Once more, men prove to be the rational beings, overlooking the personal misery of Bessy Amherst in favour of the bigger picture and the personal gain that can be made from her suffering. However, the opposition to euthanasia was not just a professional one. Dowbiggin writes that,
highly dependent on public confidence, doctors overwhelmingly shared their society’s moral values. If most physicians would not support birth control before the 1960s because it clashed with Americans’ sense of right and wrong, they were even less likely to endorse euthanasia. Before doctors and their patients could accept euthanasia, a profound change in the country’s moral sentiments was necessary. (7)
Considering the public view of euthanasia in her time, it is not difficult to grasp the shocking nature of Justine’s act in the eyes of contemporary readers. It should be noted, however, that the outrage and disgust over Justine’s act as soon as it is revealed comes exclusively from the male characters in The Fruit of the Tree. This difference in morality can be explained once again through gender differences, in this case in the approach to morality. As a nurse, Justine is a very emotional and compassionate person and calls her work as a nurse “real work – my special work” as opposed to her work for Bessy and Cicely as a mere housekeeper (Fruit 462). When she thinks of returning to this real work, she exclaims to Amherst: “I’ve been to idle for the last year – I want to do some hard nursing; I want to help people who are
miserable” (Fruit 462-3).
Her compassion and her ideas about moral responsibility towards her suffering patients are highly feminine, for they are very personal and at times emotional. For Justine, there is no bigger picture, there are just many different suffering individuals all worthy of her personal attention and her help. The main difference between Justine and Amherst’s morality and especially between their motives for acting on it is the extent to which it is thought through, rationalized and calculated. Whereas Amherst, as I have illustrated above, has a hidden agenda for acting on his moral standards, Justine does not. Justine acts purely on her emotions and beliefs and on her compassion for individuals and feels morally compelled to do what is right even if her act can have negative consequences for herself. What is more,
eventual consequences do not even cross her mind, for her only care is to help people and to do for them what she thinks is the morally right thing to do.
For Justine, power and status take second place to her conscience and she does not hesitate to sacrifice all that she has accomplished in life in order to carry out an act that will satisfy her ‘soul’. Moreover, her idea of morality is so pure that she has no doubt in her mind that Amherst will understand and support her in the decision that she has made.
Amherst had indeed previously spoken out to her in favour of euthanasia, when considering the case of injured factory workers who might never again be able to work and support their families. He says “I know what I should do if I could get anywhere near Dillon – give him an overdose of morphine, and let the widow collect his life-insurance, and make a fresh start” (Fruit 15). Convinced by her belief that Amherst would fully support her decision if he had been there, Justine looks at her friend Bessy and all she can see is unnecessary suffering without any hope for improvement. Moreover, the fact that Dr Wyant is trying to save and cure Bessy in order to show and promote his professional abilities makes her even more convinced that she should “save” Bessy before she becomes Wyant’s “project”. For these reasons, she does exactly that which Amherst himself has proposed in Dillon’s case: she administers an overdose of morphine. Unlike Wyant or Amherst or any of the other men in the novel, she does not commit her act in order to personally gain anything from it, rather, her act is perfectly selfless and aimed just at saving Bessy from further suffering. The social stigma surrounding euthanasia and the consequences for herself if this secret ever comes out never cross her mind and she has not anticipated her later marriage to Amherst and his reaction to her secret once she is forced to reveal it. Justine is still fully convinced of the morality of her act and her only regret is keeping it a secret from her husband. To her surprise, however, Amherst is not merely angry about her secrecy but also disgusted about what she
has done. He fails to see what Justine considers to be the moral justification for this act and his image of his new beloved wife is forever stained by what she did.
The moment that Amherst expresses his disgust over his wife’s act of mercy the implicit masculinity of his ideals and moral beliefs is revealed. Though priding himself on being rational and without emotion and thereby being able to see things from a greater perspective, a quality he deems essential for social reform, Amherst has not realised that this kind of perspective has reduced his idealism to a theoretical level. Though in theory he supports euthanasia in the case of useless suffering, he cannot bring himself to apply this theory to the very personal and emotional situation that is presented to him. In light of these observations, the economical background of his previous argument for euthanasia in the Dillon case is more striking still. The value and use of Dillon’s life is reduced to his ability to work and support his family. Once unable to do so any longer, Amherst believes it to be better if he died so that his wife would at least get his life insurance. Alive, Dillon might no longer be able to support his family financially, while his death might do just that for his wife.
In Bessy’s case, however, there is no direct economic argument for her death. She is not poor, nor does she need to work for her money. Were she to to survive and be paralysed for the rest of her life there would be no change to her net worth, nor would it affect
Amherst’s income for he would still be able to use her money for the mills. There is, therefore, no purely rational justification for Justine’s act, hence this act does not fit within Amherst’s theory. Bessy is not part of the bigger picture, her death is personal to Amherst and cannot be generalized. This is exactly where the gender difference in morality lies. Though Amherst is, compared to other men in the novel, a modern and progressive man, he is only so in general terms and in theory. Justine realises to her horror that though “her motive had been normal, sane and justifiable – completely justifiable, her fault lay in having dared to rise above conventional restrictions, her mistake in believing that her husband could rise with her” (Fruit 525). She further realises that “like many men of emancipated thought, he had
remained subject to old convention of feeling” (Fruit 525) and with this realisation, she hits the nail on the head. Men in Wharton’s world are emancipated in thought, in theory and in their political and professional aspirations, but not in emotion. Justine on the other hand, as an emancipated woman, rarely considers feeling or theory and acts mainly on emotion and personal morality, a morality that is not connected to self-improvement and ambition.
CHAPTER 4: RISK TAKING AND GENDER
4.1 THEORIES ON RISK TAKING AND GENDER
Before moving on to a more specific analysis of male and female approaches to risk taking in The Fruit of the Tree it is important to explore existing theories on the subject. Though there are a great number of studies and scholarly works on risk theory in general and as related to gender, this introduction will have to be limited to a brief and very incomplete evaluation of two different approaches to gender differences in risk taking. The first of these approaches is a biological one, Wilson and Daly write for instance that “we expect a taste for competitive risk taking to be an evolved aspect of masculine psychology as a result of sexual selection. If male fitness derives from success in risky competition, then males are expected to join such competition willingly, given reasonable prospects of success” (66). Hence according to Wilson and Daly, the reason for the fact that men usually participate in more risky behaviour then women lies in human biology, these differences are therefore innate and the effect of male risk-taking is far-reaching. About this, they write that “the males tend to suffer higher mortality than the females. This sex difference is ultimately attributable to the greater degree of productive competition among males and its more proximate causes are various, including a variety of consequences of the males’ risk-taking behavior” (Wilson and Daly 67). Men are more frequently the victim and the perpetrator in homicide cases and they are involved in more fatal accidents then women are. All of this adds to Wilson and Daly’s theory that male risk-taking is a biologically predetermined factor of evolutionary competition between men. As opposed to this biological approach there are several studies related to differences in risk perception between men and women. Per Gustafson’s article “Gender and Risk Perception” provides an overview of such studies in order to investigate the question why women and men perceive risk differently and he reports on a Swedish study by Jakobsen and Karlsson that revealed that
women were more oriented toward home and family, mainly perceiving risks as threats to their family and other persons with whom they had close relations, and to their home (e.g., fire). Accident risks, health risks, and risk of death were often mentioned. Men’s concerns were to a higher degree related to their working life, e.g., risks of unemployment, and economic problems. (806)
Gustafson’s concludes from this and other studies that differences in risk perception are closely related to differences in (social) roles between men and women and argues that female roles such as the caretaker and nurturer are inherently related to protective behaviour towards the family and the home, whereas the typical male role of the bread winner is related to financial risk. As a result, these social roles dictate risk awareness in specific domains.
Another possible reason for female risk aversion is mentioned in a study conducted by Harris, Jenkins and Glaser, who argue that there is a gender difference in the judgment of possible outcomes of risky behaviour: “women tend to judge negative outcomes associated with risky behaviors as both more likely and more severe; they also indicate a lower
likelihood of engaging in these risky behaviors and judge the activities as less enjoyable than do men” (54). Hence, women are more aware of the possible negative outcomes of risky behaviour than men and have a more pessimistic evaluation of these negative outcomes. Moreover, whereas men admit to enjoying risky behaviour women are less likely to actually like such behaviour.
These are only two of many approaches to risk theory and gender and they represent quite different ideas. Whereas the first approach evaluates risk taking as a biological and evolutionary process, the latter looks at it from a socio-cultural context. However, there is one thing that both of these theories agree on, and that is the idea that women are usually more risk-averse than men. In most studies on risk taking and gender, this seems to be a given. However, the next section of this chapter will illustrate that Edith Wharton had a contrasting idea on risk taking and gender.
4.2: RISK TAKING IN THE FRUIT OF THE TREE: MALE RATIONALITY AND FEMALE IMPULSE
In The Fruit of the Tree, risk taking is not as obviously present as it is in some of Wharton’s previous works such as The House of Mirth, which dealt with themes like gambling. Yet if we define risky behaviour in a broader context to include any kind of behaviour that can have several different outcomes, of which at least one is perceived as a negative outcome, several instances of such behaviour in The Fruit of the Tree come to mind. Amherst takes a risk in pursuing his ideals on industrial reform behind his boss’s back, Bessy takes a deliberate risk in riding her horse Impulse despite her knowledge of his unpredictability, Justine takes a risk in her mercy killing of Bessy, and Dr Wyant takes a risk in blackmailing Justine about this.
