As argued in my previous blog post, Lady Audley’s Secret (or the sensation genre in general) relies not only upon explicitly “sensational” plot devices and narrative intrigue to entice its contemporary Victorian reader. In fact, Mary Elizabeth Braddon’s development and characterization of Lady Audley, subjected to the desertion of her first husband and the ills of poverty throughout her early life, enables the reader to form a connection (if not wholly profound) with the novel’s titular “villainness” and, thus, produce readerly sympathy for a controversial and radical female character. As my former post notes, Braddon employs careful word choices in order to elicit this sympathy at the minute linguistic level. However, she also creates sympathy for Lady Audley by the way in which she structures the novel’s narrative; often, Braddon reveals details about Lucy’s (or Helen’s) motivations, memories, and miseries in conjunction with judgments made against Lucy by the characters around her, especially Robert Audley and other characters who embody the male or societal gaze. The above timeline, created with TimelineJS and Google Spreadsheets, enables me to closely analyze the way that narrative structure and the ordering of plot functions as a generator of sympathy for Lucy. Rather than demonstrating narrative events chronologically, this timeline presents three pairs of scenes that occur near one another and seem to comment upon (or create fascinating links with) each other. In particular, many of these pairs come from one or two chapters that make leaps in time and disrupt ordinary chronology of plot, whether through flashbacks, letters dated earlier than the scene presented, or characters’ accounts of the past.
The first pair of narrative moments both occur within the very first chapter of Lady Audley’s Secret, and both set the stage for Lucy Audley as the novel’s most prominent character. First, Braddon provides the reader with the picturesque description of Audley Court, where Lucy Audley plays an important role as the angelic, sweet, and benevolent Mistress of the house. Braddon paints Audley Court, itself, as the serene and idyllic setting of marital bliss and upper-class comfort, calling the estate a “glorious old place – a place that visitors fell into raptures with; feeling a yearning wish to have done with life, and to stay there for ever […] a spot in which Peace seemed to have taken up her abode, setting her soothing hand on every tree and flower” (Braddon 8). After briefly introducing Sir Michael Audley and his only daughter, Alicia, the novel turns to Lucy, and it subsequently takes the reader back in time to when she was Miss Lucy Graham, attracting the attentions of Sir Michael. At first, much like the idyllic portrayal of the domestic abode over which she will preside, Lucy epitomizes the stereotypical “Angel in the House” and the feminine charms expected of her by society. She exudes “joy and brightness,” with a face that “[shines] like a sunbeam” and the blessings of “grace,” “beauty,” and “kindliness” (11). Further, Braddon presents the social appraisal of Lucy Graham that establishes her eminence in the novel and her likability amongst her peers: she reveals that “[e]very one loved, admired, and praised” Lucy as “the sweetest girl that ever lived” (12). This directly recalls Coventry Patmore’s “The Angel in the House” poem, published between 1854 and 1862. In this poem, Patmore demonstrates societal ideals of feminine beauty and goodness that were expected of Victorian wives and women, praising:
Her modesty, her chiefest grace,
The cestus clasping Venus’ side,
How potent to deject the face
Of him who would affront its pride!
Wrong dares not in her presence speak,
Nor spotted thought its taint disclose
Under the protest of a cheek
Outbragging Nature’s boast the rose.
In mind and manners how discreet;
How artless in her very art;
How candid in discourse; how sweet
The concord of her lips and heart. (Patmore 40)
Lucy fulfills these expectations in this first scene, but before Chapter One ends, Braddon delves deeper with Lucy’s character as Sir Michael offers her his hand in marriage. What should be presented as a simple and sweet acceptance of his marriage proposal, as would be expected of her as an “Angel,” Lucy immediately perplexes Sir Michael (and the reader) in rejecting his love but accepting him for the “bargain” of companionship and material comfort (Braddon 17). However, Lucy’s materialistic motivations do not hinder the development of readerly sympathy, precisely because Braddon immediately provides hints as to Lucy’s prior misfortunes and reveals her childhood poverty. Lucy, agitated by Sir Michael’s offer, proclaims, ” You ask too much of me! Remember what my life has been; only remember that. From my very babyhood I have never seen anything but poverty […] Poverty, poverty, trials, vexations, humiliations, deprivations! […] I cannot be disinterested; I cannot be blind to the advantages of such an alliance” (16). Later on, Lucy comforts herself with the idea that she will suffer “no more dependence, no more drudgery, [and] no more humiliations” (17). These revelations by Lucy are not inherently “sensational,” but rather provide the reader with important background knowledge of Lucy that will become significant as the novel (and our understanding of Lucy) progresses. The two scenes are slow, and they serve to establish the basis of how we see and comprehend Lucy’s actions. She is the first character with whom the reader can perceive psychological and emotional depth or motivation, and Braddon seems to deliberately begin her novel with the mystery of Lucy’s past in order to evoke the reader’s curiosity towards and sympathy for Lucy. In particular, Lucy piques the reader’s interest because we already begin to see the ways in which Lucy subverts or defies expectations of her as a Victorian woman. Whereas Coventry Patmore asserts that the Victorian woman “loves with love that cannot tire,” Lucy immediately refuses to pretend that her marriage to Sir Michael stems from this tireless, devoted love (Patmore 75). Thus, Braddon produces something “sensational” in the quiet proposal of Sir Michael and the sympathies that we feel towards unfortunate Lucy.
The second pair of scenes in the timeline allows me to analyze the way that the reader’s sympathy for Lucy contradicts or opposes Robert Audley’s seeming indifference towards her plight. In fact, Robert’s reaction to what he learns of Lucy’s past causes him to grapple with his own yearning to empathize with Lucy and his desire to bring down the woman who has endangered his friend, George. As Robert searches further for the evidence which will definitively link Helen Talboys to Lucy Audley, he travels to her original home of Wildernsea, where she was trapped in a poor and desolate marriage to George Talboys. Here, the inhabitants of Wildernsea provide explicit detail of the wrongs felt by Helen and help Braddon further establish genuine sympathy for the manner in which George abandoned the woman who relied on him. Robert only wishes to find the dates of Helen’s departure and Lucy’s appearance at Mrs. Vincent’s, which he does eventually find; however, Braddon not only provides these dates, but also requires Robert to learn of the circumstances that occasion Helen’s flight and eventual bigamy. Mrs. Barkamb gives him the physical letters that serve as cold evidence of her crimes, but also forces Robert to perceive Lucy in a sympathetic light. She recounts that Helen “left abruptly, poor little woman!” and states that Helen “tried to support herself after her husband’s desertion” to no avail (Braddon 246). Helen’s letter gives Robert the incriminating proof of Helen’s and Lucy’s connection, but it also plays a significant role in Braddon’s attempt to make Lucy a sympathetic female character (despite her violent or deceitful wrongdoings). Helen reveals in this letter: “I am weary of my life here, and wish, if I can, to find a new one. I go out into the world, dissevered from every link which binds me to the hateful past, to seek another home and another fortune” (248). In light of this painful revelation, Braddon makes it much more difficult for the reader (and Robert) to revile Helen/Lucy for her actions and urges us to perceive the circumstances that provoked Helen’s “crimes.”
Braddon underscores her hopes for readerly sympathy towards Lucy in the way that Robert himself cannot help but feel a pang of pity and sympathy for Lucy’s past misfortunes. The scene which follows in the consequent chapter unambiguously pits Robert’s (and the reader’s) sympathies for Lucy against his own socially-accepted and expected desire to undermine Lucy’s agency. He commiserates with Lucy, terming her a “poor little creature” and “poor unhappy little golden-haired sinner,” then proceeding to note that “the battle between [them] seems terribly unfair” (250). These reflections ostensibly mirror those of Braddon and the audience, who recognize the inequities in the treatment of men and women in Victorian society. While George may abandon his wife and child without repercussion, Lucy’s choice to do the same results in the necessity that she commits a crime and undermines societal notions of Victorian femininity. Lucy is ultimately vilified for doing exactly what her first husband was able to do unquestioned. However, Braddon eventually restores Robert’s unsympathetic indifference towards Lucy when he begins to think about George, and in his homosocial bond with George, eventually discards sympathy for Lucy by declaring that he “will tear away the beautiful veil under which she hides her wickedness” (251). Thus, Braddon places Robert at odds with the sympathetic gaze toward Lucy that she has carefully constructed for the reading audience; her decision to reveal the tragedy of Lucy’s plight before Robert’s declarations of vengeance cause the reader to perceive Robert’s own callous dismissal of Lucy and his unfair treatment of her needs and feelings. Robert’s refusal to accept a sympathetic gaze towards Lucy immediately separates him from the audience, while continuing to emphasize audience sympathy for Lucy.
Braddon continues and amplifies this dynamic between the sympathetic “villain” and the indifferent “hero” in the way that Robert ultimately rebukes, imprisons, and exiles Lucy for her behavior. In chapters three and five of the novel’s final volume, Braddon depicts Robert’s final accusations against Lucy and Lucy’s defiant stance against his judgment of her. First, Braddon presents Robert’s traditional perspective in his condemnation of Lucy’s supposed villainy. Robert’s judgment of Lucy asks the reader to recognize his view of her as a threat to societal order and feminine docility; he cries in forthright manner to Lucy that he “can no longer know pity or compunction” for her misfortunes, because her violent and manipulative comportment has essentially rendered her unfeminine and unnatural to his eyes (Braddon 339). His sympathy for her as a woman requires that she comport herself in a manner that fits within his view of traditional gender roles, and because Lucy has transgressed expectations of her role as wife and mother, she is “no longer a woman” and becomes an “incarnation of […] evil” to Robert (340). Braddon immediately contradicts this unsympathetic gaze by allowing Lucy to voice her history, reason, and emotional motivation directly to her unsuspecting husband, Sir Michael. She unequivocally tells Sir Michael and the reader that her miserable experience of “poverty” has colored her entire life and her behavior, and she further acknowledges that her “ultimate fate” as a woman in Victorian society “depended upon [her] marriage” (344-345). These details provide the reader with concrete and legitimate reasons for why she committed bigamy and violently sought to protect her newfound wealth and comfort.
Furthermore, she overtly appeals to the reader’s sympathy (and Sir Michael’s sympathy) by making a comparison between her viewpoint as a lower class woman and that of Sir Michael and Robert, who “have been rich all [their] lives, and can very well afford to despise me” (345). Through Lady Audley’s contradiction of Robert and Michael’s unfeeling and unsympathetic view of her, Braddon unambiguously asks the reader to acknowledge the injustice of punishing Lucy and the inherently unfair nature of the society to which Lucy must defer. Lucy asserts that, had they allowed her to continue in peace, she “might have been a good woman for the rest of [her] life” (349). The male rejection of Lucy seems particularly harsh when Braddon equips the reader with the detail of Lucy’s suffering, and Robert’s ultimate decision to exile Lucy for her misdeeds (which eventually causes her death) frustrates and disappoints the readerly sympathy for Lucy that develops throughout the course of the novel. When Robert tries to pin Lucy’s comportment on her purported “madness,” Dr. Mosgrave directly denies this claim, arguing that Lucy “employed intelligent means” in the “hope of finding a better [home]” (370). Thus, these three pairs of scenes perfectly illustrate the way in which Braddon underscores and develops the reader’s sympathy for Lucy as a direct contradiction to the expected placement of sympathy with the novel’s stereotypical male hero, Robert. Though Braddon concludes her novel with Lucy’s death, as well as a societal return to peace and order, the audience’s experience with Lucy, whose story enables us to understand the hardships of her position as an impoverished and trapped lower-class woman, renders the novel’s cookie-cutter ending unsatisfying. Braddon’s deliberate efforts to juxtapose the sympathetic details of Lucy’s plight with the harsh indifference of her contemporary male peers enables her to slyly comment upon the problematic and unjust vilification of women who have no other options. The novel’s narrative structure and shifting chronology make this juxtaposition more salient and aid in our own feelings of sympathy for Lucy.