Good Women

[elettaria]

There seems to be a strong trend, particularly in 19th century literature, of portraying disabled women as so saintly that few readers can actually stand them. Sometimes the author seems to be despising the character too, sometimes they seem to be terribly fond of them and not have realised that no one else is. A lot of these characters die.

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[gehayi]

Louisa May Alcott does it in another book, too--this one called Jack and Jill. Chapter 15, which is entitled "Saint Lucy," is especially blatant:

"One day, when the princes were out-ahem! we'll say hunting-they found a little damsel lying on the snow, half dead with cold, they thought. She was the child of a poor woman who lived in the forest-a wild little thing, always dancing and singing about; as hard to catch as a squirrel, and so fearless she would climb the highest trees, leap broad brooks, or jump off the steep rocks to show her courage. The boys carried her home to the palace, and the queen was glad to have her. She had fallen and hurt herself, so she lay in bed week after week, with her mother to take care of her-"

"That's you," whispered Jack, throwing the white carnation at Jill, and she threw back the red one, with her finger on her lips, for the tale was very interesting now.

"She did not suffer much after a time, but she scolded and cried, and could not be resigned, because she was a prisoner. The queen tried to help her, but she could not do much; the princes were kind, but they had their books and plays, and were away a good deal. Some friends she had came often to see her, but still she beat her wings against the bars, like a wild bird in a cage, and soon her spirits were all gone, and it was sad to see her."

"Where was your Saint Lucy? I thought it was about her," asked Jack, who did not like to have Jill's past troubles dwelt upon, since his were not.

"She is coming. Saints are not born-they are made after many trials and tribulations," answered his mother, looking at the fire as if it helped her to spin her little story. "Well, the poor child used to sing sometimes to while away the long hours-sad songs mostly, and one among them which the queen taught her was 'Sweet Patience, Come.'

"This she used to sing a great deal after a while, never dreaming that Patience was an angel who could hear and obey. But it was so; and one night, when the girl had lulled herself to sleep with that song, the angel came. Nobody saw the lovely spirit with tender eyes, and a voice that was like balm. No one heard the rustle of wings as she hovered over the little bed and touched the lips, the eyes, the hands of the sleeper, and then flew away, leaving three gifts behind. The girl did not know why, but after that night the songs grew gayer, there seemed to be more sunshine everywhere her eyes looked, and her hands were never tired of helping others in various pretty, useful, or pleasant ways. Slowly the wild bird ceased to beat against the bars, but sat in its cage and made music for all in the palace, till the queen could not do without it, the poor mother cheered up, and the princes called the girl their nightingale."

"Was that the miracle?" asked Jack, forgetting all about his slippers, as he watched Jill's eyes brighten and the color come up in her white cheeks.

"That was the miracle, and Patience can work far greater ones if you will let her."

"And the girl's name was Lucy?"

"Yes; they did not call her a saint then, but she was trying to be as cheerful as a certain good woman she had heard of, and so the queen had that name for her, though she did not let her know it for a long time."

So yeah. Thirteen-year-old Jill, who injured her back in a sledding accident and who, at this point, doesn't believe she'll ever walk again, was just told that she should be a cheery little household saint to comfort other people. (She does find out a bit further on in the chapter that she will walk again, but this is what she says when she finds out: "I thought I wasn't any better, and never should be, and I made up my mind I wouldn't ask, it would be so hard for any one to tell me so.")

[elettaria]

ICK. That's the most revolting example of inspiration porn I've seen in my life. It's so explicit about caging wild women, too. Actually, I wonder whether it would make a good example when explaining to people why we really don't like being told we're inspirational?

What's the "ahem, hunting" about? There's the obvious, but snowy forests aren't really where red light districts happen, nor would I expect that in an Alcott story.

It's interesting that the girl in this story is punished for being bad, bad in this case meaning unfeminine, wild and so forth. Same goes for What Katy Did. Clarissa, on the other hand, is punished for doing her best to be good, and ye gods, Richardson puts her through the wringer. The first two get accidents, Clarissa gets mental illness (after various dramatic, and indeed traumatic, events), and in all cases you could blame the victims if you wanted to be particularly nasty, though it would be absolutely unfair to.

Laura Fairlie in The Woman in White is another one roughly along the Clarissa lines, now I think of it. Good, beautiful, obedient, gets put through the wringer, ends up in a piteous state as a result, though gets to stay alive and indeed get married. Although whatever else Wilkie Collins did, he didn't pull this inspiration porn shit.

[gehayi]

What's the "ahem, hunting" about? There's the obvious, but snowy forests aren't really where red light districts happen, nor would I expect that in an Alcott story.

The "ahem, hunting" thing is an attempt to make the story of Jill's accident sound more fairy-tale-ish, because princes who are out hunting in fairy tales often stumble upon maidens in distress. However, the "hunting" bit makes it look like Jack and his older brother Frank were out together and no one else was around. In reality, Frank was one of a large crowd that was out with Jack that day, and thirteen-year-olds Jack Minot and Jill (actually Janey) Pecq were hurt in the same sledding accident, which happened because someone dared Jill to slide down a very steep and rocky hill and Jill asked Jack (who had a sled, whereas she didn't) to take her down the steep hill a couple of times.

"Jack, take me down that coast. Joe said I wouldn't dare to do it, so I must," commanded Jill, as they paused for breath after the long trudge up hill. Jill, of course, was not her real name, but had been given because of her friendship with Jack, who so admired Janey Pecq's spirit and fun.

"I guess I wouldn't. It is very bumpy and ends in a big drift; not half so nice as this one. Hop on and we'll have a good spin across the pond;" and Jack brought "Thunderbolt" round with a skilful swing and an engaging air that would have won obedience from anybody but wilful Jill.

"It is very nice, but I won't be told I don't 'dare' by any boy in the world. If you are afraid, I'll go alone."

That's the extent of Jill's "badness." If you read the book, she comes across as a genuinely nice girl who likes sports better than sewing and other designated feminine pursuits.

And Joe Flint? Never penalized for daring her. Even Jack gets off more lightly; he suffers a compound fracture in one of his legs which, in-period, would have been potentially life-threatening, but which is treated by his doctor as no problem at all. Jill is explicitly punished for not shrugging off Joe's dares and insults, because girls, the various older women in this book say over and over, are supposed to "tame" the wildness of boys.