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‘The Terror of Men’s Dreams’: Patriarchy and the Paranormal in the Fin
de Siècle
English Language and Literature
T10790-6AAEC012

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King’s College London
School of Arts & Humanities
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Patriarchy and the Paranormal in the Fin de Siècle
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disciplinary action being taken.

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Contents
Introduction 5
Lucy Westenra: A Curious Psychological Case Study 8
Perverse Beauty 15
‘The story won’t tell…not in any literal vulgar way’: 20
Reading and Writing from the Female Gaze
Conclusion 30
Bibliography 31

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‘The Terror of Men’s Dreams’: Patriarchy and the Paranormal in the Fin de Siècle.1
On looking back I see that, at the moment in my mind, the woman didn’t
really count. She saw herself she didn’t. That’s precisely what she made me
see.
What counted chiefly with her, I suspect, was something infinitely greater to
her vision than the terror of men’s dreams.2
Within Charlotte Mew’s short story ‘A White Night’, the reader is forced to watch as
a woman is lowered to her death and subsequently buried alive. The scene itself is
haunting and uncomfortable, but the unease that it produces is amplified by the
narration of the man witnessing her death. He, ironically, believes himself to be a
“white knight”, observing the sacrifice of this woman as she nobly fulfills her
sacrificial role. He concludes that ‘the woman didn’t really count’ as she is a conduit
for the beliefs of those around her. This is true in more ways than one; the woman
acts as a vessel for what the narrator believes to be true. He places her as a
mysterious, and beautiful, creature who completes her role as a woman within the
story. The woman’s own thoughts are denied, replaced and violated by the gaze of the
man who watches her. She is used by both the men who sacrifice her, and the man
who buries her thoughts beneath his own.
The gaze of the narrative, from a male point of view, is an incredibly subtle,
and effective, approach to observing the role of women within the fin de siècle. Using
‘A White Night’ as a microcosm for the ideology of the time, it is clear to see the
privilege afforded male narrative, and its impositions upon contemporary women.
Like the woman of the story, trapped forever in the walls of an archaic structure, so
the women of the late Victorian era were denied freedom to liberate themselves from
a suffocating ideology, which placed them as fragile creatures, malleable to the male
view. Whilst women’s views of themselves were evolving, patriarchal ideology
constantly forced archaic ideas onto these “new” women, preserving and trapping
their identities. For example, Lyn Pykett observes that nineteenth century literature,
1 Charlotte Mew, ‘A White Night’, in Daughters of Decadence: Women Writers of the
Fin-de-Siècle, ed. by Elaine Showalter (London: Virago, 2011), pp. 118-138, (p. 138).
2 Mew, p. 138.

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Whether written by men or by women, was both produced by and engaged
with a complex and contradictory discourse on woman’s supposedly affective
nature, a discourse which…assigned her either to the domain of the irrational,
or to that of the supra-rational.3
Whilst the women of the time wished to move forward into the 1900s, patriarchal
culture refused any liberation from the ideals of the time, trapping Victorian women
within the nineteenth century. The reader is thus constantly pulled back into the past
whilst ideas progress forward, producing a time rupture in the literature of the period,
as time seems to progress unevenly.
The literature of the last few years of the Victorian age demonstrates the
extent to which changing roles for women threatened the patriarchal culture. This is
expressed particularly well in supernatural fiction, which allows a very distinct look at
the fears of the time. Susan J. Navarette observes
Fin de siècle horror literature…is an expression of cultural anguish, because it
is the vessel into which various authors poured their most corrosive anxieties
and their darkest fantasies about the “true” nature of reality.4
Supernatural fiction allows for an exploration of contemporary beliefs, through its
interpretative description of fear as expressed in paranormal form, allowing the reader
to explore the depths of the Victorian psyche through the privilege it affords the
concept of fear. In exploring these fears as they are revealed literarily, we can
extrapolate and discover the more insidious beliefs of the time. Horror constantly
expresses contemporary fears, for example the fear of consumption which is shown in
zombie films of the mid-twentieth century, and as such it as an especially useful
vessel for exploring Victorian ideology.
Within my analysis of ‘the terror of men’s dreams’ I have chosen to focus
specifically on the period in question, in this case the 1890s. I believe that in
exploring the scientific, social, and literary ideas of the time I will be afforded a far
3 Lyn Pykett, ‘Woman’s ‘affectability’ and the Literature of Hysteria’, in The
‘Improper’ Feminine: The Women’s Sensation Novel and the New Woman Writing
(London: Routledge, 1992), pp. 164-176, (p. 164).
4 Susan J. Navarette, The Shape of Fear: Horror and the Fin de Siècle Culture of
Decadence (Kentucky: University Press of Kentucky, 1998), p. 3.

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more immersive and extensive analysis of patriarchal ideology than by focusing on
theories placed on the literature in hindsight. In a sense I am exploring the fin de
siècle from within, both through close analysis of three texts, and through
contemporary ideas and legislation in relation to sexuality. It is my desire to use the
framework of the time in question to show how these ideas enhance contradictions of
femininity, as they are expressed in supernatural literature. As a result of this I have
avoided any type of theory which retrospectively imposes an interpretation on these
stories. For example, whilst it would be interesting to explore some of the texts
psychoanalytically, unfortunately Freud’s theories were translated years later and thus
would not have been widely known at the time. Charlotte Perkins Gilman in particular
despised Freud’s theories, after they were widely known, and so it would be
counterproductive to explore her interpretation of ideology through a psychoanalytical
lens. In doing this, I hope to show how the writers themselves will have used
contemporary ideas to express their beliefs, instead of merely focusing on my
interpretation as a reader.
The texts on which I have chosen to focus are Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Henry
James’s ‘The Turn of the Screw’, and Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s ‘The Yellow
Wallpaper’. These are all texts which provide a paranormal examination of the fin de
siècle, with a particular emphasis on female characters. These three texts are
representative of three different ways of responding to the crises of the changing role
of women. Dracula observes the male fantasy through a focus on the male gaze and
the particularly violent response to contradictory women. ‘The Turn of the Screw’
invites the reader to observe female limitations from the point of view of a woman,
expressing the limitations imposed upon women from a frustrated female standpoint.
Finally, ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’ offers a resolution to the ideology of the time,
suggesting a liberation through female reading and writing. It is significant that
Gilman is herself a female writer, showing her hopeful belief in its implementation. In
the following chapters I will explore these texts in conjunction with contemporary
ideas, in an attempt to show ‘the terror of men’s dreams’ as they were felt in the fin de
siècle.

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Lucy Westenra: ‘A curious psychological study’.5
Lucy is a notably contradictory character within Dracula. While critics have
continually read Lucy as a prototypical “fallen woman”, it is apparent when reading
her behaviour more closely that this is an impeding simplification. In dismissing Lucy
as a woman who is punished for her sexual transgressions, the reader risks repeating
the typical Victorian male reader by placing Lucy in a binary role against the perfect
woman. Rather than being placed as either a virgin or a whore, Lucy desperately
desires to hold both roles, which Stoker subtly draws the reader’s attention to. Stoker,
however, acts ambivalently towards her representation, keeping both her roles in play
until the very end, while striving to create sympathy for her character. Nevertheless,
by destroying her, he evidently reveals his own response, since Lucy’s particularly
violent ending serves as an obvious statement regarding her contradictory role. As a
result, Lucy remains a compelling character to observe in relation to gender ideology
of the fin de siècle. A character that, I believe, deserves far more attention than has
been afforded her thus far.
Lucy herself admits that she is something of a puzzle. ‘Do you ever try to read
your own face?’, she asks Mina, before replying that hers ‘is not a bad study, and
gives you more trouble than you can well fancy if you have never tried it’ (p. 63). In
this instance Lucy shows her desire to see if her own appearance can afford a greater
insight into her thoughts. Clearly she is aware that, despite her childlike beauty, there
is something more to her character than others realise. As a result, it is apparent that
Lucy is unable to read her own face, presenting herself as a case study of femininity
and its contradictory nature. For example, she goes on to explain that Dr Seward ‘says
that I afford him a curious psychological study’; clearly there is more to Lucy than a
shallow evaluation of her appearance would suggest if even Dr Seward is unable to
fully deduce her desires (p. 63). Through Lucy’s inability to know herself, it becomes
apparent that she is easily misread by those around her, including the reader, as one’s
understanding of Lucy’s true character is repeatedly contradicted.
Lucy’s sexualised nature, asking ‘why can’t they let a girl marry three men, or
as many as want her’, indicates a degree of promiscuity to her character. This is
juxtaposed with affirmations of conformity to the Victorian ideal of the “angel in the
5 Bram Stoker, Dracula, ed. by Maurice Hindle (London: Penguin, 2010), p. 63. All
further references included in parentheses within the text.

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house” (p. 67). She tells Mina that ‘men like women, certainly their wives, to be quite
as fair as they are; and women, I am afraid, are not always quite as fair as they should
be’ (p. 65). Lucy herself seems to hold a misogynistic view of women, through her
belief that she is not good enough for the men who have proposed to her. She
describes Dr Seward as ‘one of the most resolute men I ever saw…he seems
absolutely imperturbable’ (p. 63). This occurs in conjunction with her attempts to
dismiss her own character when compared to the men around her. She asks Mina,
‘why are men so noble when we women are so little worthy of them?’ (p. 67).
Clearly, despite her numerous proposals, and her thrill in receiving them, she deems
herself to be undeserving of admiration. Though she admits that she ‘couldn’t help
feeling a sort of exultation’ from her proposals, she immediately tells Mina that she is
a ‘horrid flirt’, accusing herself before Mina can do the same (p. 66). Evidently Lucy
is a victim of the predicaments of the Victorian era; she desires to admonish herself
for her apparent transgressions before others can do the same, despite her apparent
enjoyment in these flirtations. She constantly tries to mould herself into an ideal
woman, in a desire to conform to Victorian stereotypes, but inadvertently reveals the
cracks in her character.
In my opinion, by reducing Lucy to the “whore” of the Victorian binary, with
Mina as her opposite, readers and critics miss the complexities of her character. Here
is a woman who desperately desires confirmation of her loveliness by men while
simultaneously declaring herself a ‘flirt’ for this need. For example allowing Quincey
to kiss her after his proposal, ‘for it was brave and sweet of him, and noble too, to a
rival – wasn’t it?’ (p. 67). She exults in the excitement of multiple proposals and yet
is constantly afraid that she will not be a good enough wife to Arthur. Phyllis A. Roth
notes that ‘for both the Victorian and twentieth century readers, much of the novel’s
great appeal derives from its hostility towards female sexuality’, with Lucy as the
obvious victim, despite clearly being a woman caught between two ideals.6 Though
Lucy has been read as a promiscuous woman who is punished for her transgressions,
she is undoubtedly shown as desiring to prove her worth to the patriarchal hegemony,
whilst fitting the roles of both “angel” and “whore” at the same time. She tells Mina,
‘I suppose that we women are such cowards that we think a man will save us from
6 Phyllis A. Roth, ‘Suddenly Sexual Women in Bram Stoker’s Dracula’, in Dracula,
ed. by Nina Auerbach and David J. Skal (London: Norton, 1997), pp.411-421, (p.
411).

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fears, and we marry him’ (p. 66). Lucy seems to believe that marriage will bring her
confirmation of herself as a respectable woman, though within the novel she is never
able to reach this potential. Whilst Victorian society placed women into binaries,
Lucy cannot easily be placed into one category or another, until she is forced into
becoming a “fallen woman” as a result of Dracula’s actions. In the world of the novel,
Lucy is literally unable to live whilst she remains un-categorised, and instead
becomes the “whore” of the novel, contrasted with her binary “other”, represented by
Mina. Conversely her suitors, by the virtue of there being three of them, reject this
polarity that the women embody. Whilst the women of the novel must conform to
either one role or another, the men are allowed to exist without this hegemony.
Lucy’s rejection of the traditional binary roles ascribed to women in the
Victorian era is further complicated through her habit of sleepwalking. This is notably
a trait inherited from her father, reflecting the commonly held belief that
psychological traits were hereditary, most commonly through the paternal line.
Lucy’s mother is particularly wary of Lucy’s sleepwalking, locking her room so that
she cannot leave the house, which Lucy is prone to doing during these episodes.
Eugenia C. DeLamotte humorously notes that gothic fiction concerns ‘women who
just can’t seem to get out of the house’, which seems to be true in both senses within
Dracula.7
Stoker clearly draws on the scientific theories of sleepwalking at the time to
elucidate his representation of Lucy as a contradictory woman. Robert Macnish
proposed the most highly regarded scientific dream theory of the Victorian era; he
believed that dreaming was a ‘state of partial slumber, in which certain parts of the
brain are asleep, or deprived of their sensorial power, while others continue awake’.8
Dreaming can thus be interpreted as a liminal state, most obviously between
wakefulness and sleeping. However, Macnish goes on to say that sleepwalking is an
oddity within dreaming due to the power one has over the body. He notes, ‘in
dreaming, the voluntary powers are generally, but not necessarily suspended: we have
7 Eugenia C. DeLamotte, Perils of the Night: A Feminist Study of Nineteenth-Century
Gothic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), p. 10.
8 Robert Macnish, ‘The Prophetic Character of Dreams, and Nightmare’, in Embodied
Selves: An Anthology of Psychological Texts 1830-1890, ed. by Jenny Bourne Taylor
and Sally Shuttleworth (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998), pp. 102-122, (p. 102).

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a striking proof of this in somnambulism’.9 Therefore, Lucy’s attempts to dress
herself and leave the house are not merely acts of an unconscious mind, but a
demonstration of her active will to step outside. This makes her first encounter with
Dracula all the more alarming; Mina wakes to find Lucy no longer in their room. She
eventually spots Lucy in the churchyard, though she sees a ‘half-reclining figure’
standing over her, ‘whether man or beast, I could not tell’ (p. 101). When Mina
eventually finds Lucy she is ‘moaning and sighing’ with ‘long, heavy gasps’ (p. 102).
It is interesting that Stoker’s description of Lucy’s breathing can be read as showing
both Lucy’s fear and, curiously, a sense of sexual arousal. This is further shown when
Mina worries ‘for her reputation’ and endeavours to make sure that no one sees Lucy
out of her bed ‘in case the story should get wind’ (p. 103). Though Mina worries what
people will think of a respectable woman out of her bed, the mere insinuation of Lucy
walking at night holds clear connotations of a sexual nature, especially when
compared to prostitutes who, notably, came out at night. Thus, the distinctions
between sexuality and fear are blurred within this passage as a result of Lucy’s
physiological reaction and Mina’s worries for her reputation. Nevertheless, despite
Lucy’s apparent sexual arousal, upon waking she reverts back to a childish innocence
‘with the obedience of a child’ (p. 102). Lucy therefore unconsciously reveals her true
sexuality whilst sleepwalking, whereupon ‘a series of thoughts or feelings [are] called
into existence by certain powers of the mind, while the other mental powers which
control these thoughts or feelings, are inactive’.10 Lucy’s mental control is inhibited
during her sleepwalking, whilst her body displays her true desire to leave the house,
according to Macnish’s theory. Consequently, Lucy’s states of somnambulism display
her consciousness within a liminal state between sexuality and purity, whereupon her
body and mind war over her desires. Whilst dreaming, her body has control over her
mind and so her vacillation between “angel” and “whore” does not have to be thought
out according to the conventions of the time but can be conducted without the
influence of social norms. Nevertheless, whilst in this liminal state Stoker presents
Lucy as a passive victim to masculine desire, as demonstrated through Dracula’s
control over her body. As a result of this, it is apparent that Stoker uses Macnish’s
dream theory to comment on the social role of women at the time, identifying them as
passive victims of male control. Despite Stoker’s attempts to present Lucy in this
9 Macnish, p. 102-103.
10 Macnish, p. 102.

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way, it remains apparent that she is still a contradictory figure through her
transgressions during her somnambulism.
Macnish noted of nightmares that there occurred a constant state of
‘oppression and helplessness’ where ‘the individual never feels himself a free agent;
on the contrary, he is spell-bound by some enchantment, and remains an unresisting
victim for malice to work its will upon’.11 This correlates to Lucy’s fear of sleeping,
as she notes that sleep is a ‘presage of horror… All this weakness comes to me in
sleep; until I dread the very thought’ (p. 135). Both Macnish and Lucy’s descriptions
of nightmare mirror sexual assault through their accounts of ‘oppression’ and
‘weakness’. However, in regards to Victorian definitions of rape, Lucy would not be
considered a victim. Carolyn A. Conley noted the traditional definition of rape as ‘the
carnal knowledge of a woman forcibly and against her will’.12 As is the case now,
consent was of utmost concern; if there were any signs that the victim had been even
somewhat complicit then the case was dismissed, for example one woman was even
accused of showing ‘too little resistance’.13 Lucy, thus, could not be considered a
Victorian rape victim as she was, arguably, not assaulted against her will, as her
sleepwalking betrayed voluntary control over her own body, whilst her ripping off her
garlic shroud indicates a degree of free will. Though Lucy has been assaulted during
these episodes, her role as a complicit victim complicates her position. Stoker does
not allow Lucy to engage in these assaults, implicitly sexual, without suggesting some
sense of consent on her part. He, thus, denies Lucy’s position as a “pure” woman and
un-demonises the role of Dracula within these moments, placing the blame on Lucy to
a certain degree, paralleling the Victorian rape culture.
Finally, it is interesting that Arthur stakes Lucy, a scene that many critics have
noted for its sexuality. Nevertheless, I would argue this constitutes more of a parallel
to rape, than a parallel to consensual sex. A contemporary review from the San
Francisco Chronicle remarked, ‘nothing in fiction is more powerful than the scene at
the killing of the vampire in Lucy’s tomb’.14 While this shows the contemporary
11 Macnish, p. 104.
12 Carolyn A. Conley, ‘Rape and Justice in Victorian England’, Victorian Studies,
29.4 (summer, 1986), 519-536, (p. 520, p. 525).
13 Conley, p. 524.
14 Unknown, ‘Reviews and Reactions’, in Dracula, ed. by Nina Auerbach and David
J. Skal (London: Norton, 1997), pp. 363-367, (p. 367).

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reaction to this scene, it also shows how completely Lucy has become de-humanised
by this point. The reviewer does not write that Lucy is staked but rather a ‘vampire in
Lucy’s tomb’. Clearly Lucy, when transformed completely, has emerged from her
liminal sexual state and into complete sexuality. This scene also conforms
surprisingly well to Conley’s definition of rape; Lucy, a respectable woman, is unable
to consent to the penetration of her body, which is notably violent as Lucy’s body
‘shook and quivered and twisted in wild contortions’ (p. 230). Despite the
connotations of this scene, Arthur is encouraged to be the one to penetrate her, as he
was her fiancé. This, of course, displays a disturbing suggestion that, once again,
Lucy has not been raped, as someone who held “possession” of her body was the
perpetrator. Conley goes on to observe male virility was honoured as
Necessary to give a man that consciousness of his dignity, of his character as
lord and ruler… It is a power, a privilege of which the man is, and should be
proud.15
Once again, not only is Lucy deserving of this penetration as a result of her sexuality,
displaying rather dangerous implications for the classification of rape at the time, but
the male aggressors are also excused for their actions. Arthur is allowed to inflict this
penetration because of his status in relation to Lucy. The female body within Dracula
is thus dominated and controlled by various men. Lucy is, arguably, raped by both
Dracula and Arthur, and yet because of her identification as a “sexual” woman her
assault is continually denied. Lucy is a woman in limbo between the binaries afforded
to Victorian woman and thus cannot continue to exist while this is the case. Stoker,
thus, attempts to portray Lucy as sexualised even before her transformation in order to
show that that is her “natural” state, whilst it is apparent that Lucy continually fights
against this. In doing so, he removes the blame from the men, even Dracula, and
places it on Lucy, justifying her “punishment” for behaving as she does. Moreover,
not only does Stoker reject Lucy’s identity as a “pure” woman, but also her human
identity. Lucy, as a respectable and loved woman, cannot become a “fallen woman”
and instead is unable to be a woman at all. Lucy is consequently completely denied an
identity within Dracula as a result of the patriarchal culture of the time.
15 Conley, p. 530.

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As readers, our position in relation to Lucy is a troubling one. It is apparent, as
I have noted, that Lucy is a contradictory character caught within Victorian gender
ideology, while the violence done towards her is a result of the contradictions
imposed upon her by society. However, Stoker denies any sort of redemption for
Lucy by casting her as a flirtatious woman who is deserving of her fate, through her
apparent consent. It is clear that we, as readers, are placed within the male gaze,
forced to misunderstand her femininity and to consequently revel in her destruction.
Lucy, towards her demise, becomes an object onto which Victorian tensions of female
identity are placed. This results in a sense of pleasure derived from her death, by
staking Lucy along with the ideals she represents. Clearly, the reader is forced to
misread Lucy, and the consequences of this end with a sadistic sense of pleasure in
her death. This is a dangerous technique, as it causes a sense of ‘pseudo power’
wherein the reader, ‘by willing the heroine’s suffering as the source of a pleasurable
literary experience, gains the illusion of being in control of it’.16
16 DeLamotte, p. 158.

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Perverse Beauty.
Stoker’s gendering of the reader as male within Dracula serves to emphasise
the characterisation of Lucy according to masculine ideals. Not only is Lucy a
paradigm for the fallen woman, but she is also used by Stoker to reinforce gender
ideology through her beauty. As a result of the male gaze, Stoker defines Lucy’s
beauty in accordance with ideals of the time, through an emphasis on her childlike
and innocent appearance. The implications of this become apparent when observed in
relation to Victorian beliefs regarding attractiveness, because it was widely believed
that outward beauty, or lack thereof, corresponded to a likewise character.
Consequently, since Lucy’s childlike beauty defines her character, once this is lost
she can no longer be seen in this way. In other words, because Lucy’s character is
only defined by her ‘sweetly pretty’ looks, which reflect her sweet character, the
degradation of her appearance equates to the removal of her natural character entirely
(p. 73).
In order to implement the removal of Lucy’s innocent character, which makes
her death justifiable for the male characters, Stoker firstly establishes Lucy as an
object of desire. Upon our first introduction to her we are told that she has been
proposed to by at least three different men, who are all in love with her. As Lori Hope
Lefkovitz observes, ‘the reader, always masculinized by the text, is made to wish to
possess the woman who is beautiful’, showing the reader as an extension of the men
in the novel.17 Stoker goes on to describe Lucy’s ‘beautiful colour’, observing that
men ‘fell in love with her on the spot’ (p. 73). Lucy’s character and outer appearance
are thus shown to be indistinguishable from one another. In this way, Lucy is
immediately objectified within Dracula, as a female onto which male desires are
imposed. This is enforced by the epistolary structure of the novel, as our interactions
with Lucy are mediated through other characters, such as Dr Seward, who holds
romantic feelings for her. Despite her desirability, however, Quincey constantly refers
to her as ‘little girl’ during his proposal (p. 67). This use of language reinforces the
notion that Lucy’s identity is bound up in a male projection of desire upon her,
suggesting that Quincey’s desire only operates by forcing the object of his desire to be
labelled as vulnerable or inferior. Moreover, aside from the power relations this
17 Lori Hope Lefkovitz, The Character of Beauty in the Victorian Novel (Michigan:
UMI Research Press, 1984), p. 18.

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illuminates, it also makes manifest the troubling fact that superficially his desire rests
upon Lucy’s childlike appearance in a paedophilic way. Whilst Lucy is clearly a
contradictory character, as I have observed, her desirability stems from her ‘sweet’
nature, showing the male characters’ inability to observe her in any other way. This is
a clearly misogynistic way of viewing Lucy, by refusing her real nature and instead
focusing on her beauty as exemplary of her character.
This reliance on Lucy’s beauty becomes apparent upon her transformation into
a vampire whereupon she becomes overly sexual. Stoker highlights her ‘voluptuous’
appearance constantly during his descriptions of her at this time (p. 172). Dr Seward
in particular notes that ‘the sweetness was turned to adamantine, heartless cruelty, and
the purity to voluptuous wantonness’ while her lips are ‘crimson with fresh blood’ (p.
225). Her blood-stained lips hold clear sexual connotations; evidently she is no longer
the “pure” woman we initially met. Moreover, her sexuality appears to be
interchangeable with her cruelty. The implication is that, because she has become
sexualised, she must have become evil in some sense too. Dr Seward goes on to
remark that ‘at that moment the remnant of my love passed into hate and loathing; had
she then to be killed, I could have done it with savage delight’ (p. 225). There is a
markedly violent reaction towards Lucy’s change in appearance, not only do the men
become immediately violent towards her, but they also delight in her destruction. It is
apparent that they are mirroring Lucy’s violence themselves. Evidently the men in the
novel are not held accountable for the violence committed against Lucy because it is
deserved. Although Lucy’s character has obviously changed, it is her sexual nature,
which has clearly destroyed her innocent and pure character, that most angers the men
in the novel. As Lucy’s appearance has changed, the male characters immediately see
her as something that needs to be destroyed. Stoker consequently uses her beauty to
define her character in a particular way; once this is removed the male characters are
able to easily justify staking her. While her appearance is an easy way of showing her
change in character, it also reveals disturbing views of female sexuality. Since Lucy’s
identity is diminished once she is sexualised, Stoker suggests that women somehow
deserve to be mistreated when they act contrary to Victorian ideals.
Stoker also destroys Lucy’s previous identity by presenting her as a “bad”
mother, perpetuated in the narrative by the implication that her motherly instinct has
been corrupted. This idea lies closely in parallel to her sexuality, as Lucy uses her
beauty to seduce the children, shown when the children refer to her as the ‘bloofer

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lady’ (p. 189). Lucy’s own childlike beauty has metamorphosed so that she is able to
use her beauty against children as a result, implying a worrying comment on beauty as
either childlike, or destructive. Lucy’s complete maternal destruction is conveyed
through her feeding from children as a vampire. To consume from children is surely
the greatest abomination of what is intrinsically feminine in women. There are many
ways that Stoker could have tainted her motherhood, but he presents the worst way in
which a woman might destroy her motherliness, presenting Lucy as a “bad” mother.
In drinking the blood of these children, Lucy is taking away life from them rather than
creating it as a mother would. The result of this destruction is that it can be used to
justify the violence done against her, because Stoker completely removes Lucy’s
previous identity and leaves a guiltless desire in the male characters to devastate her.
Moreover, Lucy’s transformation also brings to fruition the masculine fear of
Dracula’s breeding, since she is turned into a similar creature. In this sense, Lucy and
Dracula become mother and father figures through their procreation, contrary to
typical Victorian marriage ideals.
By removing Lucy’s identity, Stoker legitimises and justifies the violence
done against her by presenting her as a creature that no longer bears any resemblance
to Lucy’s true nature. In doing this, Stoker also reveals Victorian gender ideology by
showing what constitutes a “good” woman; clearly as Lucy is a “bad” mother, and a
sexual one, she is no longer a real woman and must be destroyed. It is also worrying
that Lucy’s beauty is held so highly because it is childlike, due to the clear risk of
fetishising childlike beauty to the point of perversion.
The dangers of fetishising childlike beauty are consequently presented in ‘The
Turn of the Screw’, through the fear that Quint and Miss Jessel had an inappropriate
relationship with the children. This fear was addressed by reviews of the time that
commented on this relationship. The Independent described James’s story as ‘a study
of infernal human debauchery’…wherein Miss Jessel and Quint ‘poison the very core
of [the children’s] conscience and character and defile their souls’.18 Mrs Grose is the
first to directly acknowledge the children’s relationship with their caretakers:
She paused a moment; then she added: “Quint was much too free.”
18 Unknown, ‘Most Hopelessly Evil Story’, Independent, 5 January 1899.

18. 18
This gave me, straight from my vision of his face – such a face! – a sudden
sickness of disgust. “Too free with my boy?”
“Too free with every one!”19
It is interesting to read this in conjunction with Richard Krafft-Ebing’s definition of
paedophilia in Psychopathia Sexualis. He observes the rise in child molestation
during the late Victorian period and notes that ‘the moralist sees in these sad facts
nothing but the decay of general morality’.20 He also blames the lack of judicial
legislature against child molestation for its increase; for example, the Offences
Against the Person Act of 1861 only discussed judicial sentences against individuals
who committed sexual acts against girls specifically, with no mention of molestation
against young boys. James is clearly commenting on the decline of masculinity at the
time, as it lay in tandem with fears of a decline in morality. Louise A. Jackson notes,
‘the spectre of sexual abuse was, by the 1880s, a clear case in point of a form of
masculine behaviour which could potentially discredit “patriarchy”’.21 Since the
reader is placed within the female gaze, through the perspective of the governess, the
fetishisation of child beauty is denied to the reader as she views them from a maternal
point of view. However, the possibility of its perversion is shown through the
character of Quint. In this way, James suggests the threatening nature of the male
gaze in contrast to the governess who strives to protect them. Quint, on the other
hand, is shown to intimidate and threaten Miles, for example when the governess sees
him for the second time and realises that ‘it was not for me that he had come’ (James,
p. 43). Andrew Dowling believes that Victorian writers used deviant males to
reinforce the archetypal male of the period. He writes;
These authors illustrate the importance of the male ‘other’, those sources of
difference that are constantly produced and then crushed from within the
19 Henry James, ‘The Turn of the Screw’, in The Turn of the Screw, ed. by Peter G.
Beidler (Boston: Bedford Books, 1995), pp. 21-116, (p. 50). All further references
included in parentheses within the text.
20 Richard Krafft-Ebing, Psycopathia Sexualis (London: Rebman Limited, 1906), p.
522 <https://archive.org/stream/psychopathiasex02krafgoog#page/n8/mode/2up>
[accessed 18 May 2014]
21 Louise A. Jackson, ‘Masculinity, ‘Respectability’ and the Child Abuser’, in Child
Sexual Abuse in Victorian England (London: Routledge, 2000), pp. 107-131, (p. 112).

19. 19
gender divide. The process of manufacturing deviancy in order to maintain
normalcy is a process this book calls “hegemonic deviance”.22
While this may be true for other novels, since Quint is the only male character apart
from Miles, he cannot be compared against the “normal” male figure. This links back
to Dracula and the three male figures’ resistance to binary roles. In this way, the male
characters of both novels are never forced into particular roles, as the female
characters are.
Both Dracula and ‘The Turn of the Screw’ expose the dangers of fetishising
childlike beauty to the point of perversion, due to the fears regarding a decline in
morality at the fin de siècle. This lies in conjunction with fears regarding masculinity,
in particular its threat to children who were held in high esteem at the time. As
Navarette argues, there was a ‘cult of childhood’ during the Victorian era which
considered children the pinnacle of morality.23 However, Stoker’s use of the male
gaze merely contributes to the hegemonic view of women popular at the time, whilst
James’s use of the female gaze exposes this by revealing its threatening nature. This is
made all the more worrying through its placement on children in particular, focusing
the poisonous aspect of the male gaze upon the highest ideal of vulnerability.
22 Andrew Dowling, Manliness and the Male Novelist in Victorian Literature
(Hampshire: Ashgate, 2001), p.3.
23Navarette, p. 117.

20. 20
‘The story won’t tell…not in any literal vulgar way’: Reading and Writing from the
Female Gaze (James, p. 24).
While Stoker self-consciously genders the reader as male within Dracula, in
order to project Victorian gender ideology onto Lucy, Henry James takes a markedly
different approach within ‘The Turn of the Screw’. James’s ambiguous tale concerns
an unnamed governess, tasked with the care of two young children whose parents
have passed away. The tale is told through the use of a manuscript, supposedly
written by the governess herself many years earlier. This immediately draws our
attention to the act of reading and writing; the governess has constructed the story
herself whilst, through the framing narrative, James draws particular attention to our
own act of reading the story. The first person narrative emphasises the female gaze of
the governess, encouraging the reader to inhabit the woman’s point of view and, in
turn, casting the reader as an extension of the governess. The effect of this is subtle
but becomes apparent when comparing ‘The Turn of the Screw’ to a novel that does
the opposite, such as Dracula. The ambiguities and contradictions that inhabit the
story are thus presented so as to reveal the paradoxical constructs of Victorian society.
Instead of presenting these contradictions through a male gaze, as in Dracula where
the reader is encouraged to feel violently towards femininity, James reveals how these
contradictions are felt through the female gaze, and the conflict that inevitably occurs.
James, in casting the reader as female, further reveals the misogynistic attitudes
towards female readers of the time. In this way he exposes the limitations of gender
ideology and its entrapment of the female figure.
‘The Turn of the Screw’ is, consequently, a text that seems to revel in the gaps
left between the pages. It is a story that, to quote Douglas, does not tell itself, ‘not in
any literal vulgar way’. As a result of this, the reader’s placement within the text is
emphasised through the privileging of their interpretation. This is evidenced by the
countless analyses afforded it. Though T.J. Lustig argues that this is detrimental, as it
‘demonstrates the way in which criticism shapes texts in accordance with its own
beliefs’, it is necessary to observe the importance of reading the text and how

21. 21
illuminating the gaps between the words can be.24 Lustig goes on to write that ‘The
Turn of the Screw’ is
Repeatedly concerned with the act of telling. More often than not, however, its
predicament is that of not being able to tell. Fragmented and vestigial, the
existing text looks like the ruined remains of a fuller story.25
The result of the tale ‘not being able to tell’ is thus emphasised through the inability
of the governess to successfully read and interpret what occurs around her. This
becomes apparent during her questioning of Miles’s expulsion. She repeatedly asks
Mrs Grose, ‘is he really bad?’ (James, p. 32). The governess, of course, has no way of
knowing Miles’s true character but as Mrs Grose spoke with ‘such a flood of good
faith in it that, though I had not yet seen the child, my very fears made me jump to the
absurdity of the idea’ (James, p. 32). The governess has no way of knowing the full
story, so is forced to interpret it through the information she is given, however
fragmented it appears. The governess, as a result, reads into the gaps of Miles’s story
and constructs her own interpretation, just as the reader must do throughout the story
in order to connect together the information that the governess receives. The gaps in
the narrative are shown when the governess questions Mrs Grose:
“Then you have known him-?”
“Yes indeed, Miss, thank God!”
On reflexion I accepted this. “You mean that a boy who never is -?”
“Is no boy for me!” (James, p. 33)
The governess uses the gaps in Mrs Grose’s narrative to construct a story around what
she expects Mrs Grose to say. We, as an extension of this, also have to do the same by
interpreting what has been left unsaid and reading into the narrative our own ideas of
what is being left out. By purposefully using ambiguous language, James forces the
reader to parallel the governess’s need to read between the lines. This occurs
throughout the novel, in conjunction with the governess’s need to construct herself
24 T.J. Lustig, ‘The Turn of the Screw’, in Henry James and the Ghostly (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1994), pp. 105-189, (p. 112).
25 Lustig, p. 116.

22. 22
through her own writings. For example, she notes that the period of inactivity at Bly
was
A trap… to my imagination, to my delicacy, perhaps to my vanity… The best
way to picture it all is to say that I was off my guard. They gave me so little
trouble… It may be of course that what suddenly broke into this gives the
previous time a charm of stillness – that hush in which something gathers or
crouches. The change was actually like the spring of a beast (James, p. 36).
The governess is shown to read into what is essentially a gap within the narrative of
the text, something that was not there. The governess creates a sense of foreboding
through her description of this time period as threatening. At the time she could not
have known that there was a ‘charm of stillness’ as the later events had yet to happen.
Thus, it is apparent that the governess reads into the blanks of her story to fill in what
she believes to be true, paralleling the role of the reader. This occurs continuously
throughout the story as the governess is forced to piece together small clues in order
to create the wider picture. By writing this from the perspective of the governess, the
reader is privileged to the governess’s thought processes. As a result, her assumptions
that might otherwise seem unfounded are instead shown to be the consequence of a
lack of information. Moreover, upon her encounter with Miss Jessel, the governess
suddenly begins to fear a lack of seeing, exclaiming that she isn’t afraid of seeing
Miss Jessel again, ‘it’s of not seeing her’ (James, p. 55). She becomes more acutely
aware that she is becoming less able to read the story around her, having to rely on
what she doesn’t see to inform her opinions. She further remarks,
The more I go over it the more I see in it, and the more I see in it the more I
fear. I don’t know what I don’t see, what I don’t fear! (James, p. 55).
There is a clear realisation by the governess that she cannot know what she doesn’t
see; she places the importance of knowing on seeing what occurs around her. James
thus privileges the act of reading above all else, showing its importance and the
distress it causes the governess when she is no longer able to do so. Furthermore,
whilst a third person narrator might interpret her failures as a sign of her weakness,
the reader is instead privileged to see how fragmented the governess’s time at Bly

23. 23
obviously is, and the complications she encounters. The female gaze, within ‘The
Turn of the Screw’ is thus shown to be fragmented and contradictory, reflecting the
position of the governess. Just as she must take on the patriarchal role of protector, so
the reader can see the impossibility of this task. Her narrative gaze, obviously
disjointed, consequently mirrors her position as a female within the story, whilst also
reflecting the reader’s inability to construct a coherent explanation to the story. James
forces the reader to feel how the governess feels in order to show her frustration at her
role within the household.
The governess’s inability to successfully read her own story also acts as an
ironically self-aware comment on the Victorian views of female readers. Catherine J.
Golden observes that there were many different arguments against women’s reading
at the time, most notably concerned with women’s natural biological weaknesses
which, apparently, made them vulnerable to the emotions created by a novel. Golden
writes that
A woman’s biological differences – her greater sensitivity and sensibility –
made her more susceptible to effects of a novel. Countless experts pronounced
sensation novels, mysteries, and horror tales stimuli to avoid strenuously for
physical well-being.26
She goes on to observe the specifically sexual analysis of female reading, as
something that ‘might overstimulate a girl’s still dormant sexual and emotional
instincts’.27 Despite the arguments for reading, proposed by feminists such as
Charlotte Perkins Gilman who encouraged reading for its educational value, there
existed a strong and consistent voice against reading due to the psychological and
physiological effects it might produce. The romantic and sexual connotations of over-
reading can be seen when the governess observes the ghost of Peter Quint for the first
time. It is firstly significant that this apparition occurs whilst she is wandering out of
the house, having left her position as a governess within the private sphere of the
home. This first apparition threatens her not only whilst she has left the children, but
26 Catherine J. Golden, Images of the Woman Reader in Victorian British and
American Fiction (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2003), p. 32.
27 Golden, p. 32.

24. 24
also when she is daydreaming. As I have previously noted, daydreaming was regarded
as a state wherein certain parts of the brain were “switched off” and controlled by
others, and thus the governess’s consciousness is weakened as a result. It is apparent
at this point that the governess is imagining the children’s uncle. She confesses that
It would be as charming as a charming story suddenly to meet some one.
Some one would appear there at the turn of a path and would stand before me
and smile and approve (James, p. 37).
She describes this man’s ‘handsome face’, which was ‘exactly present’ to her,
undoubtedly referring to the uncle (James, p. 37). She also draws attention to her
daydream as a ‘story’ that she wishes could happen to her. The governess acts as a
typical female reader within this passage, imagining a romantic encounter with
someone whom she holds romantic feelings for. This indiscretion, however, is
punished by the emergence of a figure on top of the tower. Whilst she initially
believes this to be the uncle, noting that ‘my imagination had, in a flash, turned real’,
it becomes apparent that the figure is someone else (James, p. 37). As she realises
this, her perception of the scene changes. She notes that ‘all the rest of the scene had
been stricken with death’, transforming the once romantic scene into something far
more sinister (James, p. 38). By regarding the scene in both ways, James creates a
caricature of the typical Victorian reader. The governess has clearly been “over-
stimulated” by romantic stories and thus imagines a somewhat sexual encounter with
the uncle, whilst this act of daydreaming then threatens the governess by making her
vulnerable to the strenuous effects of reading, through her consequent frightening
encounter. Clearly she is both psychologically and physiologically affected by her act
of reading into her environment. Her use of language within this passage draws
attention to her act of reading, noting that she is making her ‘statement’ regarding the
‘scene’, and that the figure was ‘as definite as a picture in a frame’ (James, p. 39). She
later notes that ‘I saw him as I see the letter I form on this page’ (James, p. 39). This
draws the reader’s attention to how the scene has been constructed not only by the
governess but also by James himself. He consequently makes the reader aware of how
the story has been written, so that our position as readers is emphasised. In this way,
the governess’s position as a reader is also exaggerated. Susan P. Casteras writes that

25. 25
For the woman reader, reading was its own reward, an escape from everyday
reality to one of daydreams; while for the prototypical male viewer of such an
image, looking at an attractive, usually passive, inactive female hold a book,
particularly an open book, seemed an invasion and an invitation to
fantasizing.28
In purposefully constructing the reader as female, through the intimacy with the
governess’s thoughts, James draws the reader’s attention to the male gaze as
something invasive and threatening to the female reader. This is enforced by Quint
and his encroachment on the governess. He constantly watches her and threatens her
as a result of his gaze, for example by looking in on her whilst she is in the drawing
room. As he meets her eye in this moment, she ‘[caught] her breath and turn[ed] cold’
(James, p. 43). Moreover, during her initial encounter with Quint it is significant that
he appears on top of ‘battlements’ with ‘crenellated structures’ (James, p. 38). The
male apparition is protected, architecturally speaking, from any form of harm, whilst
the governess is left in an open space, particularly vulnerable. In this way, as the
governess is daydreaming she is penetrated by the intrusive male gaze.
James, consequently, forces the reader to inhabit the contradictions of
femininity by gendering the reader as female. In doing this he exposes the threatening
male gaze whilst also ridiculing the archaic ideas regarding female readers. In keeping
his story ambiguous he also forces the reader to construct the story just as the
governess is required to. This encourages the reader to act empathetically towards the
governess, instead of seeing her as a figure that needs to be destroyed, like Lucy,
whilst also revealing the hypocrisy of seeing female readers as unable to read
“correctly”.
Charlotte Perkins Gilman, within her short story ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’, also
presents the limitations of gender ideology enforced on females of the fin de siècle.
However Gilman offers a solution through the act of writing. Gilman, like James,
genders the reader as female by writing her story in a diary format, which privileges
the reader to the female narrator’s thoughts. Nevertheless whilst the manuscript form
28 Susan P. Casteras, ‘Reader, Beware: Images of Victorian Women and Books’,
Nineteenth-Century Gender Studies, 3.1 (spring 2007), paragraph 12
<http://www.ncgsjournal.com/issue31/casteras.htm> [accessed 12 May 2014]

26. 26
in ‘The Turn of the Screw’ is used by James to draw attention to the act of writing,
Gilman uses the diary format to present the protagonist’s ability to write herself into
her own story, and the liberation that occurs as a result of this. Gilman’s approach to
the female hysteric is a unique one, perhaps because Gilman herself suffered from
mental illness and was frustrated with her doctor’s approach to her treatment. Gilman
was thus afforded an insight to not only the medical approach to madness at the turn
of the century, but also an insight to the female victim’s perspective. Whilst I am
choosing not to focus on the madness presented within this short story, as I believe it
would not be useful to retrospectively enforce a diagnosis, it is however necessary to
observe how Gilman uses madness to expose misogynistic gender ideologies. Ann
Heilmann observes that women in the Victorian age were presented ‘as boxes
(‘cases’/case studies) whose mystery could only be lifted if they were opened and
penetrated with the writer’s pen’.29 I believe Gilman resists this penetration by
refusing to diagnose her protagonist, or to create any real sense of resolution at the
story’s conclusion. Instead she reveals how her narrator gains power through the act
of writing, refusing to be ‘penetrated with the writer’s pen’, by inhabiting the role of
writer herself. In becoming the writer to her own story, the narrator is able to free
herself from the restrictions imposed upon her by her doctor husband.
Gilman begins her story, however, by showing the importance of reading.
Gilman herself strongly believed that women should read more, and more diversely.
The protagonist of ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’ begins to read her surroundings very
astutely, most notably the wallpaper of the title. For example she observes that ‘when
you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit
suicide – plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of
contradictions’.30 Clearly, the protagonist begins to read her neurosis into the
wallpaper, observing its desire to ‘destroy’ itself. She goes on to describe the house
by everything that keeps her trapped inside, noting the ‘hedges and walls and gates
that lock’ with a garden ‘full of box-bordered paths, and lined with long grape-
29 Ann Heilman, ‘Narrating the Hysteric: Fin-de-Siècle Medical Discourse and Sarah
Grand’s The Heavenly Twins (1893)’, in The New Woman in Fiction and in Fact: Fin-
de-Siècle Femininisms, ed. by Angelique Richardson and Chris Willis (Hampshire:
Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), pp. 123-135, (p. 127).
30 Charlotte Perkins Gilman, ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’, in Daughters of Decadence:
Women Writers of the Fin-de-Siècle, ed. by Elaine Showalter (London: Virago, 2011),
pp. 98-117, (p. 101). All further references included in parentheses within the text.

27. 27
covered arbors’ (Gilman, p. 99). Though this might appear to reveal the neurotic mind
of the narrator, it is apparent by her interactions with her husband that she is not
allowed to leave the house, despite her protestations. She thus not only shows how
acutely able she is to recognise the trappings of the house, but also her ability to write
her fears onto the house itself. This is reflected in how she reads the wallpaper.
Though the protagonist is undoubtedly neurotic, she seems to read the wallpaper
remarkably well, or at least reads her fears into it with exceptional deftness. Golden
has noted that the wallpaper acts as an apparent palimpsest. She writes that ‘the
wallpaper is arguably… a parchment written upon, erased, and then written upon
again’.31 Not only does the protagonist read it, then, but she also begins to write her
own story on top of it. Her reading and writing ability is apparent when she remarks
‘no wonder the children hated it!’, after observing that her room must have been a
nursery and then perhaps a gymnasium (Gilman, p. 101). This is particularly notable
due to her empathy for the children who previously inhabited the room. As the reader
is made aware, the narrator is clearly a new mother, and by being forced into the room
she is unable to fulfil her maternal role. In this way, Gilman shows how clearly the
narrator is being treated like a child; she is forced into a nursery, and told how to
behave by her husband, who consequently appears to act as a father figure. As such
she is unable to be a mother to her own child. Her descent into madness, then, acts as
a worrying comment on the roles of women at the time. In being forced into the role
of either children or mother, women cannot be both roles at the same time. Gilman
thus asks what happens when these distinctions begin to blur? In forcing women into
set roles, women are literally unable to be anything else, and instead are depicted as
crazy. Gilman consequently offers a solution to this by showing her protagonist
recognising her entrapment, and writing her liberation into the wallpaper.
Firstly, however, her husband’s continual misdiagnosed prognoses are shown
through the narrator’s own ironic comments. She observes that her husband, a doctor,
orders her not to read or write, effectively banning any sort of stimulation. It is
apparent, however, that this only encourages her to read and write even more. She
also reveals her husband’s contradictions, by revealing that ‘he does not believe I am
sick’, whilst also noting his mistaken belief that she is getting better (Gilman, p. 98).
Clearly there is a sense of denial by the husband as to what exactly is wrong with his
31 Golden, p. 195.

28. 28
wife. The frustration felt by the protagonist begins to express itself through the
wallpaper. For example, she observes that
You think you have mastered it, but just as you get well underway in
following, it turns a back-somersault and there you are. It slaps you in the
face, knocks you down, and tramples upon you. It is like a bad dream.
(Gilman, p. 109)
Though this appears to be a continuation of her neurotic behaviour, it is significant
that this occurs after she has argued with her husband, saying that she needs to leave
the house. He rebuffs her and notes that he knows more than her, and that he knows
best. Though she is unable to express how this makes her feel, the wallpaper reflects
her emotions, showing that she feels as though she has been slapped in the face and
knocked down. Her act of writing onto the wallpaper is continued when she
recognises a trapped woman inside it, who wants to get out. This woman appears to
parallel her own reactions remarkably well. The narrator observes that ‘by daylight
she is subdued, quiet. I fancy it is the pattern that keeps her so still. It is so puzzling. It
keeps me quiet by the hour’ (Gilman, p. 110). There is a chiasmic structure to this
observation; the figure is quiet, kept so by the wallpaper, whilst she herself remains
quiet, kept so by the wallpaper. Clearly the protagonist and the creeping woman are
beginning to become one.
This prophecy occurs at the climax of the story when the protagonist believes
that she herself has escaped from the wallpaper, saying ‘I’ve got out at last… And
I’ve pulled off most of the paper, so you can’t put me back!’ (Gilman, p.117). This is
generally regarded as a somewhat terrifying conclusion, showing the protagonist’s
complete descent into madness. However, I would argue that it is, in fact, liberating.
By aligning herself with the woman trapped in the wallpaper, the protagonist creates
her own liberation by creeping out of the wallpaper at last. As she can’t realistically
escape from her room, she writes herself into the wallpaper so that she is able to free
herself in another way. As a result, Gilman shows the liberation that writing holds for
the protagonist. This occurs, however, in conjunction with the realisation that the
protagonist is unable to free herself in real life, and thus is only liberated in her own
mind.

29. 29
James and Gilman thus use the act of reading and writing to expose and
confront gender ideologies of the time. James codes the reader as female in order to
show the contradictions placed upon females within the fin de siècle, whilst also
ridiculing the hegemonic interpretation of female readers as unable to read
“properly”. James forces the reader to re-enact the governess’s own failings through
our attempt to understand the ambiguities of the tale. Thus not only does James
gender the reader as female, but he also creates the reader as an extension of the
governess herself in order to reveal the struggles of females at the time. Gilman,
however, offers a solution to gender ideology by showing the importance of female
writing. This is paralleled by her own biography as a woman who defeated her illness
by writing about it. Gilman thus takes James’s argument one-step further by not only
promoting the act of reading, but also showing the power female writers hold. Both
texts, consequently, comment on the reader of literature as being just as crazy as the
reader within literature.

30. 30
Conclusion.
‘What counted chiefly with her, I suspect, was something infinitely greater to
her vision than the terror of men’s dreams’. It is interesting to return to Charlotte
Mew’s short story after having discussed the importance of the male and female gaze
within fin de siècle horror literature. Despite the woman’s description occurring from
the male narrator’s point of view, perhaps it is true that the woman herself had a
greater ‘vision’, seeing above and beyond patriarchal fears. I believe this is something
that both James and Gilman strived to achieve. To recognise that, despite Victorian
gender ideology and the limitations it imposed upon women, perhaps literature
offered a way to expose the misogynistic society, and to offer an escape from it. By
placing women within certain roles, the patriarchal society didn’t allow for women to
evolve naturally, meaning they became trapped in a pre-existing temporal framework.
James and Gilman, however, worked within this frame to expose its existence and to
show how contradictory and misogynistic gender ideology truly was. Though Stoker
portrayed an aggressive attitude towards women within his novel, he at least
recognised the contradictory role of women, and the impositions placed upon them at
the time. It is remarkable to see how James and Gilman used the literary and
ideological conventions of the fin de siècle to subtly create a female gaze to implore
readers to recognise the plight of women. They used the paranormal, particularly, to
ask what was ‘the terror of men’s dreams’? Each of the texts I have examined reveals
that the female and her many forms frequently consumed the Victorian male mind.
Thus the paranormal form, whilst exposing patriarchal fears, also empowered the
female characters, and consequently female readers, by showing the female influence
over men. If women were ‘the terror of men’s dreams’, then they were truly
terrifying.

31. 31
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(summer, 1986), 519-536
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Gothic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990)
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