In feminist assessment of The Blithedale Romance, Mary Suzanne Schriber explores motivations for suicide: how, she asks, [are we] to judge death, reportedly a suicide for love of the reformer Hollingsworth, in light of feminist protestations?(1) Schriber attempts to explain what she considers the merely superficial incoherence of character by exposing the distortion inherent in Miles Coverdale's highly subjective narration. Schriber's conclusion that drowning is either an accidental death or a suicide over despair of woman's lot and future prospects(2) is, however, no better founded than Coverdale's own account of the situation. Other critics, in their attempt to account for the inconsistencies that Schriber exposes, suggest that Coverdale is a mad narrator, or claim that Zenobia is murdered, citing both Hollingsworth and Coverdale as likely suspects.(3) In my view, however, the attention to exact motivations and the emphasis on redeeming character by pointing the finger at fellow Blithedalers fails not because the conclusions that result are implausible because they are only of tangential interest in the romance. The end of The Blithedale Romance tells the story, not only of a character's suicide or murder, of a narrator's need to suppress the artistic vision that threatens his own production. The question of whether Coverdale murders Zenobia in the course of the novel's action may, of course, be debated; more interesting and relevant, however, is the issue of why Coverdale as narrator must silence the voice of Zenobia in his text. From the first, Coverdale shows himself uncomfortably aware of the artistic power wielded by Zenobia. When Moodie enquires about Zenobia, it is art with which Coverdale first associates her: but have you a literary turn, Mr. Moodie?(4) Coverdale's anxious assessment of literary efforts intrudes in his initial description of her, a description which begins by focusing on Zenobia's aspect takes a significant detour: Her hand, though very soft, was larger than most women would like to have . . . though not a whit too large in proportion with the spacious plan of entire development. It did one good to see a fine intellect (as hers really was, although its natural tendency lay in another direction than towards literature) so fitly cased. She was, indeed, an admirable figure of a woman (p.43). Hidden between Coverdale's description of hands and figure is a telling aside that reveals less about art than about Coverdale's anxiety. The narrator's mention of literary pursuits is consistently qualified by his use of diminutive adjectives: her poor little stories and tracts never half did justice to intellect. It was only the lack of a fitter avenue that drove to seek development in (p. 68). Despite his scathing assessment of work, Coverdale's very obsession with artistry displays the radical sway art holds over him. With absolutely no evidence to support his claim, Coverdale assumes that Priscilla's apparent worship of Zenobia is a result of the girl's admiration for art: There occurred to me no mode of accounting for Priscilla's behavior, except by supposing that she had read some of stories (as literature goes everywhere) . . . and had come hither with the one purpose of being slave. There is nothing parallel to this, I believe - nothing so foolishly disinterested, and hardly anything so beautiful, - in the masculine nature, at whatever epoch of life (p. 58). After wrongly assuming that Priscilla's tribute to Zenobia has a literary basis, Coverdale attempts to undercut the significance of that tribute by claiming that the public worship of such is only understandable. Even were work significant, Coverdale makes it clear, it is solely status as a female artist that invites the presence of literary disciplines. …
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