Wieland

“My state is not destitute of tranquillity. The sentiment that dictates my feelings is not hope. Futurity has no power over my thoughts. To all that is to come I am perfectly indifferent. With regard to myself, I have nothing more to fear. Fate has done its worst. Henceforth, I am callous to misfortune.”

These are seven highly negative statements. As the negatives mount up, the reader senses a degree of melodrama and excess. At the time of this writing, Clara is still out of balance. She has yet to go through her final transformation by fire.

“A Bible was easily procured, and he ardently entered on the study of it… Every fact and sentiment in this book were viewed through a medium which the writings of the Camissard apostle had suggested. His constructions of the text were hasty, and formed on a narrow scale. Everything was viewed in a disconnected position. One action and one precept were not employed to illustrate and restrict the meaning of another. Hence arose a thousand scruples to which he had hitherto been a stranger. He was alternately agitated by fear and by ecstasy. He imagined himself beset by the snares of a spiritual foe, and that his security lay in ceaseless watchfulness and prayer.”

Wieland Sr.’s idiosyncratic religious philosophy is founded on the same kind of error that leads his children and their families to disaster. Like him, they lack an overarching principle to unify the observation of the senses. These principles include, “The simplest explanation that explains all the facts is probably the truth.” (Occam’s razor) and, “The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply.” (Sherlock Holmes, “The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire,” by Arthur Conan Doyle)

From the description of his early life, Wieland Sr. seems likely to have been experiencing the onset of bipolar disorder, beginning with general depression and moving into a hypomanic episode characterized by obsessiveness and anxiety. A focused study—in this case of religion—may have helped him to manage his moods.

“Was this the penalty of disobedience? This the stroke of a vindictive and invisible hand? Is it a fresh proof that the Divine Ruler interferes in human affairs, meditates an end, selects, and commissions his agents, and enforces, by unequivocal sanctions, submission to his will? Or, was it merely the irregular expansion of the fluid that imparts warmth to our heart and our blood, caused by the fatigue of the preceding day, or flowing, by established laws, from the condition of his thoughts?”

Clara contemplates the inexplicable death of her father. She has never been able to make up her mind whether his death was supernatural or if it had some scientific explanation. Ironically, she dismisses out of hand the most likely explanation which is lightning strike, the effects of which are variable and could explain most of the incident. The author’s intent, however, is to keep the reader off balance, never allowing them to settle firmly on one side of the line or the other—the rational or the supernatural. Thus, the reader identifies with Clara’s doubt and confusion.

“But its effect upon my brother’s imagination was of chief moment. All that was desirable was, that it should be regarded by him with indifference. The worst effect that could flow, was not indeed very formidable. Yet I could not bear to think that his senses should be the victims of such delusion. It argued a diseased condition of his frame, which might show itself hereafter in more dangerous symptoms. The will is the tool of the understanding, which must fashion its conclusions on the notices of sense. If the senses be depraved, it is impossible to calculate the evils that may flow from the consequent deductions of the understanding.”

This statement of Clara’s is supremely rational, yet she, as much as any of the other characters, falls afoul of exactly the evils she predicts. Her specific concern for her brother’s imagination suggests some awareness, conscious or otherwise, on Clara’s part that Wieland may have a particular vulnerability in this area. Her uneasiness on his account appears to grow over time—signified by her dream of him beckoning her into the pit—but she doesn’t become conscious of his mental decline until far too late.

“’You have never,’” said I, approaching nearer to the point—‘you have never told me in what way you considered the late extraordinary incident.’ ‘There is no determinate way in which the subject can be viewed. Here is an effect, but the cause is utterly inscrutable. To suppose a deception will not do. Such is possible, but there are twenty other suppositions more probable. They must all be set aside before we reach that point.’ ‘What are these twenty suppositions?’ ‘It is needless to mention them. They are only less improbable than Pleyel’s. Time may convert one of them into certainty. Till then it is useless to expatiate on them.’”

Clara and Theodore are discussing the incident in the temple where both Theodore and Henry heard what appeared to be Catherine’s voice. Wieland may be using the word “deception” to mean “delusion,” as if to say that they didn’t imagine hearing the voice. However, the voice was literally a deception. The simplest, most logical conclusion for any of the characters to make would be that someone was hiding nearby and imitating Catherine’s voice, yet that is the solution that seems least likely to them.

“I (Henry) insinuated that they would model themselves by his (Theodore’s) will: that Catharine would think obedience her duty. He answered, with some quickness, ‘You mistake. Their concurrence is indispensable. It is not my custom to exact sacrifices of this kind. I live to be their protector and friend, and not their tyrant and foe. If my wife shall deem her happiness, and that of her children, most consulted by remaining where she is, here she shall remain.’ ‘But,’ said I, ‘when she knows your pleasure, will she not conform to it?”

This may be Wieland’s most heroic moment. He is above all things a husband, father, and brother. This is the moment that makes his downfall so deeply tragic. Everything that is best about him is perverted by his delusions. The scene also shows Henry to be manipulative and selfish.

“He had none of that gracefulness and ease which distinguish a person with certain advantages of education from a clown. His gait was rustic and aukward. His form was ungainly and disproportioned. Shoulders broad and square, breast sunken, his head drooping, his body of uniform breadth, supported by long and lank legs, were the ingredients of his frame. His garb was not ill adapted to such a figure. A slouched hat, tarnished by the weather, a coat of thick grey cloth, cut and wrought, as it seemed, by a country tailor, blue worsted stockings, and shoes fastened by thongs, and deeply discoloured by dust,”

Clara’s prejudices paint her as something of an intellectual snob—a member of the moneyed class with no obligation to work to support herself. However, these prejudices also underline her naiveté and isolation. She has a fixed view of how a particular kind of person should look and speak based on the very small sample of her limited social circle.

Her first view of Carwin identifies him as a clown or trickster, and her description combines the features of other well-known tricksters, including Caliban, Puck, and, through the pastoral associations of the scene, Pan, who was sometimes associated with sexual frenzy.

“‘Even if I execute my purpose, what injury is done? Your prejudices will call it by that name, but it merits it not. I was impelled by a sentiment that does you honor; a sentiment, that would sanctify my deed; but, whatever it be, you are safe. Be this chimera still worshipped; I will do nothing to pollute it.’ There he stopped.”

Carwin challenges Clara’s sexuality. Until now, her infatuation with Henry—the only eligible male of her acquaintance—has been highly romanticized and idealized in her mind. Here, Carwin challenges the foundational idea that a woman’s chief virtue is virginity. He describes that virtue as a “chimera”, meaning a fiction or illusion.

“I used to suppose that certain evils could never befall a being in possession of a sound mind; that true virtue supplies us with energy which vice can never resist; that it was always in our power to obstruct, by his own death, the designs of an enemy who aimed at less than our life.”

This is the foundation of the theme of Woman as Victim of Seduction. A woman was taught to believe that if she were sufficiently virtuous, her virtue would render her assailant unable to harm her. This is of course an entirely false belief that was the product of an oppressive, patriarchal society.

“The gulf that separates man from insects is not wider than that which severs the polluted from the chaste among women. Yesterday and to-day I am the same. There is a degree of depravity to which it is impossible for me to sink; yet, in the apprehension of another, my ancient and intimate associate, the perpetual witness of my actions, and partaker of my thoughts, I had ceased to be the same. My integrity was tarnished and withered in his eyes. I was the colleague of a murderer, and the paramour of a thief!”

Clara learns that virtue is not the protection she thought it was. She was supposedly fortunate to have her supernatural guardian to protect her from Carwin, but the guardian has done nothing to protect her reputation, and Clara now realizes that she can be as virtuous as anyone could wish and still lose her social value through no fault of her own. She is taken aback at the disconnect between who she feels herself to be and who she is to the outside world.

The loss of her perceived virtue renders Clara less than human in the eyes of society. She is more than merely disgraced; she is polluted. The word “polluted” occurs eight times in the text in relation to unsanctioned female sexuality.

“‘You were precipitate and prone to condemn. Instead of rushing on the impostors, and comparing the evidence of sight with that of hearing, you stood aloof, or you fled. My innocence would not now have stood in need of vindication, if this conduct had been pursued. That you did not pursue it, your present thoughts incontestibly prove. Yet this conduct might surely have been expected from Pleyel. That he would not hastily impute the blackest of crimes, that he would not couple my name with infamy, and cover me with ruin for inadequate or slight reasons, might reasonably have been expected.’ The sobs which convulsed my bosom would not suffer me to proceed.”

Clara justly castigates Pleyel for his too-ready assumption of her guilt. He has betrayed her not just as a friend. He has been her romantic hero, protector, and lover, at least in her imagination. He has failed utterly to live up to her image of him. There is also a pragmatic risk for Clara. Pleyel could ruin her socially if he repeated his version of events.

“I had another and more interesting object in view. One existed who claimed all my tenderness. Here, in all its parts, was a model worthy of assiduous study, and indefatigable imitation. I called upon her, as she wished to secure and enhance my esteem, to mould her thoughts, her words, her countenance, her actions, by this pattern.”

This is one of the most telling notes of Henry Pleyel’s character. He is apparently oblivious to Clara’s feelings for him, since he feels no compunction in telling her that Theresa claimed all his tenderness and all his attention to Clara was in aid of improving Theresa. He has also, it appears, told Theresa that she should be more like Clara. A less romantic lover could hardly be imagined by either woman.

“As to [Carwin making] an alliance with evil geniuses, the power and the malice of daemons have been a thousand times exemplified in human beings. There are no devils but those which are begotten upon selfishness, and reared by cunning.”

Here, “genius” is used in an archaic sense to refer to a tutelary or moral spirit—somewhat similar to a guardian angel—just as “daemon” was used to describe a spiritual entity that could be either good or evil, like the Daemon of Socrates with which Wieland became fascinated. This statement exemplifies Pleyel’s rational spirit. Of them all, he has the most accurate view of the supposedly supernatural events of the last several weeks, although his estimate of Carwin’s malice and menace may be exaggerated. His rationalism keeps him level-headed, but he lacks an emotional understanding of other people.

“It is needless to say that God is the object of my supreme passion. I have cherished, in his presence, a single and upright heart. I have thirsted for the knowledge of his will. I have burnt with ardour to approve my faith and my obedience. My days have been spent in searching for the revelation of that will; but my days have been mournful, because my search failed.”

While Clara tells readers that Theodore has always been of a spiritual bent, the claims he makes here have not been apparent. The story has been recounted from Clara’s point of view, and she wouldn’t necessarily have witnessed or been aware of Theodore’s private passion. Consequently, the reader has no way of knowing whether this passion was present all along or if it manifested after Carwin’s arrival. The most concerning point in the statement is that his days have been mournful, which suggests a growing melancholy. Clara may have been subconsciously aware for some time that her brother’s mood was becoming unstable, causing her to associate Theodore with memories of her father.

“I had no grounds on which to build a disbelief. I could not deny faith to the evidence of my religion; the testimony of men was loud and unanimous: both these concurred to persuade me that evil spirits existed, and that their energy was frequently exerted in the system of the world. These ideas connected themselves with the image of Carwin. Where is the proof, said I, that daemons may not be subjected to the controul of men?”

This could be interpreted as an indictment of religion. Faith teaches belief without evidence, and if one is to believe things that defy the evidence of the senses, it is difficult to ascertain the criteria to determine what is and is not real. Clara has chosen to accept supernatural explanations for recent experiences because the supernatural explanations are more flattering to her sense of self-importance. Having abandoned critical thinking as a means of arriving at truth, she is reduced to blind faith and conjecture.

“That conscious beings, dissimilar from human, but moral and voluntary agents as we are, somewhere exist, can scarcely be denied. That their aid may be employed to benign or malignant purposes, cannot be disproved.”

Contrary to what Clara suggests, this statement most certainly can be denied. She has not proved the existence of such beings; she has merely accepted that other people have claimed to see them. Their existence makes emotional sense to her. They validate her sense of importance, and they absolve her of responsibility for her circumstances. Her most egregious error of logic, however, is the statement that their aid cannot be disproved. The fact that something cannot be disproved is not evidence for its existence.

“The shadow moved; a foot, unshapely and huge, was thrust forward; a form advanced from its concealment, and stalked into the room. It was Carwin!”

Clara sees Carwin here as the full manifestation of the monster that her first encounter hinted at. The moment is nearly cinematic with its use of shadow and distortion. Then Carwin stalks into the room and is reduced to a mere human, not a phantasm.

“I cannot justify my conduct, yet my only crime was curiosity. I perused this volume with eagerness. The intellect which it unveiled, was brighter than my limited and feeble organs could bear. I was naturally inquisitive as to your ideas respecting my deportment, and the mysteries that had lately occurred.”

This is bald-faced flattery. Clara is thoughtful, intellectual, and intelligent enough, but she is not a pinnacle of genius. Carwin has shown himself to be erudite and highly intelligent himself, so to describe himself as limited, feeble, and blinded by her brilliance is openly manipulative. A different motive of his—curiosity to see what she wrote about him—is probably closer to the truth. His manipulation of Clara undermines everything else he says and results in making Carwin appear ridiculous.

An alternate interpretation of this passage might be that Clara—as an unreliable narrator—inserted this piece of flattery herself.

“This was the work of an enemy, who, by falsehood and stratagem, had procured my condemnation. I was, indeed, a prisoner, but escaped, by the exertion of my powers, the fate to which I was doomed, but which I did not deserve.”

This might be true. Observation of Carwin suggests that his mischief is limited to relatively small impulsive tricks. But the undisguised flattery of the previous quotation reminds the reader that nothing Carwin says can be taken at face value.

“The power that he spoke of was hitherto unknown to me: its existence was incredible; it was susceptible of no direct proof.”

At this point, Clara is, in her way, as dissociated from reality as Theodore. In fact, this ability of Carwin’s is entirely provable—far more so than anything to do with spirits. Yet to her, the supernatural explanation seems the most likely.

“He owns that his were the voice and face which I heard and saw. He attempts to give an human explanation of these phantasms; but it is enough that he owns himself to be the agent; his tale is a lie, and his nature devilish. As he deceived me, he likewise deceived my brother, and now do I behold the author of all our calamities!”

Clara still rejecting material explanations. She is determined to see Carwin as a demon or allied with demons. Clara is also reaching for anyone or anything to blame other than herself and her brother.

“‘O brother! spare me, spare thyself: There is thy betrayer. He counterfeited the voice and face of an angel, for the purpose of destroying thee and me. He has this moment confessed it. He is able to speak where he is not. He is leagued with hell, but will not avow it; yet he confesses that the agency was his.’”

Clara still cannot believe that she and her brother could have been deceived by a human agency or trick. In a last-ditch attempt to save both her brother and herself, Clara accuses Carwin of being a demonic agent responsible for Theodore’s false beliefs. Her attempt fails because she is working within the false paradigm that there are supernatural entities at work. So long as she and Theodore cling to that belief, his mental illness is unbreakable because that belief is the foundation of his psychological ailment.

“I was indeed deceived. The form thou hast seen was the incarnation of a daemon. The visage and voice which urged me to the sacrifice of my family, were his. Now he personates a human form: then he was invironed with the lustre of heaven.”

This is a strained and convoluted example of faulty reasoning. Theodore begins from the unproven and untested assumption—based on emotion—that his actions were decreed by God, then forces the conclusion that God used a minister of evil to convey his command. It is perhaps the last-ditch attempt of his confused mind to retain its euphoria and protect itself from recognition of what he has done and what he has lost. Theodore will not actually overcome his mental illness until instructed to do so by the disembodied voice projected by Carwin. At this point, he is so lost to reality that only fantasy and delusion can reach him.