The Woman in White

“There, in the middle of the broad bright high-road—there, as if it had that moment sprung out of the earth or dropped from the heaven—stood the figure of a solitary Woman, dressed from head to foot in white garments, her face bent in grave inquiry on mine, her hand pointing to the dark cloud over London, as I faced her.

I was far too seriously startled by the suddenness with which this extraordinary apparition stood before me, in the dead of night and in that lonely place, to ask what she wanted. The strange woman spoke first.”

This is Walter’s—and the reader’s—first encounter with the eponymous woman in white. The language Walter uses to describe her implies a supernatural aspect to her appearance. She is an “apparition” and seems to appear from nowhere. This effect will be heightened in subsequent meetings when her resemblance to Laura accentuates the uncanny impression.

“The view was such a surprise, and such a change to me, after my weary London experience of brick and mortar landscape, that I seemed to burst into a new life and a new set of thoughts the moment I looked at it. A confused sensation of having suddenly lost my familiarity with the past, without acquiring any additional clearness of idea in reference to the present or the future, took possession of my mind. Circumstances that were but a few days old faded back in my memory, as if they had happened months and months since. Pesca’s quaint announcement of the means by which he had procured me my present employment; the farewell evening I had passed with my mother and sister; even my mysterious adventure on the way home from Hampstead—had all become like events which might have occurred at some former epoch of my existence.”

This passage describes the first morning when Walter wakes in Limmeridge. The landscape transforms Walter’s perspective so that his past life becomes distant. Though the time he passes at Limmeridge House will be happy, its almost supernatural influence on his memory creates a slightly foreboding atmosphere.

“He was dressed in a dark frock-coat, of some substance much thinner than cloth, and in waistcoat and trousers of spotless white. His feet were effeminately small, and were clad in buff-coloured silk stockings, and little womanish bronze-leather slippers. Two rings adorned his white delicate hands, the value of which even my inexperienced observation detected to be all but priceless. Upon the whole, he had a frail, languidly-fretful, over-refined look—something singularly and unpleasantly delicate in its association with a man, and, at the same time, something which could by no possibility have looked natural and appropriate if it had been transferred to the personal appearance of a woman.”

This description of Mr. Fairlie depicts him as a “frail” and “effeminate” man. Just as Walter comes to admire Marian for her masculine traits, he disparages the “feminine” Mr. Fairlie, indicating an ingrained misogyny. Collins also uses the blending of masculine and feminine features in characters such as Marian and Mr. Fairlie to heighten the book’s uncanny atmosphere—another way in which the novel upholds traditional binary gender roles despite its indictment of men who abuse women.

“‘For God’s sake, leave me!’ she said faintly.

The confession of her heart’s secret burst from her in those pleading words.”

This is the closest thing to a declaration of love that Laura can make. As is often the case with Laura, there are things that she can’t or won’t say, which contributes to the novel’s depiction of The Elusiveness of Truth. She is the only major character, for example, who doesn’t tell her own story. Here, Walter’s gloss on her meaning is significantly longer than the five inexplicit words she speaks herself, the overt meaning of which is at odds with his interpretation. This speaks to both the constraints on what a “proper” woman could say and to Walter’s own, comparatively benevolent, sexism.

“On Monday Sir Percival Glyde arrived.

I found him to be a most prepossessing man, so far as manners and appearance were concerned. He looked rather older than I had expected, his head being bald over the forehead, and his face somewhat marked and worn, but his movements were as active and his spirits as high as a young man’s. His meeting with Miss Halcombe was delightfully hearty and unaffected, and his reception of me, upon my being presented to him, was so easy and pleasant that we got on together like old friends.”

This passage is narrated by Mr. Gilmore and records his impressions of Sir Percival when the latter arrived at Limmeridge. There is a dramatic irony in this assessment because by this stage Collins has signaled that there is something malevolent about Laura’s fiancé. Even this description, while generally superficial and positive, does suggest some reservations. Sir Percival is “marked and worn” and “rather older than expected.”

“Short, sharp, and to the point; in form rather a business-like letter for a woman to write—in substance as plain a confirmation as could be desired of Sir Percival Glyde’s statement. This was my opinion, and with certain minor reservations, Miss Halcombe’s opinion also. Sir Percival, when the letter was shown to him, did not appear to be struck by the sharp, short tone of it. He told us that Mrs. Catherick was a woman of few words, a clear-headed, straightforward, unimaginative person, who wrote briefly and plainly, just as she spoke.”

This is Mr. Gilmore’s assessment of Mrs. Catherick’s letter confirming Sir Percival’s claims. It is telling that he considers the letter more “business-like” than is typical for a woman, especially as the exclusion of women from business dealings becomes a way for Sir Percival to rob his wife. It eventually becomes apparent that Mrs. Catherick is no friend of Sir Percival’s, suggesting that Mr. Gilmore has misread the tone of this letter, the curtness of which communicates her dislike of Sir Percival.

“His eyes brightened, and he seemed about to say something in answer, but the same momentary nervous spasm crossed his face again. He took my hand, pressed it hard, and disappeared among the crowd without saying another word. Though he was little more than a stranger to me, I waited for a moment, looking after him almost with a feeling of regret. I had gained in my profession sufficient experience of young men to know what the outward signs and tokens were of their beginning to go wrong, and when I resumed my walk to the railway I am sorry to say I felt more than doubtful about Mr. Hartright’s future.”

Many characters experience periods of crisis or disorientation in which other characters worry about their mental health. This is one such low moment for Walter: Gilmore encounters him in London and is concerned by his hectic appearance and his assertion that he is being spied on. These moments of disorientation and doubt create a commonality between Anne and the other characters. Shortly after Gilmore makes this judgment, Marian writes that she fears “one fixed idea about Laura was becoming too much for [Walter’s] mind” (187).

“Eleven o’clock. It is all over. They are married.

Three o’clock. They are gone! I am blind with crying—I can write no more—.”

Marian’s description of her sister’s marriage causes her diary, which is usually thorough and descriptive, to become sparse and staccato. Her sentences are short, trailing off with the declaration, “I can write no more.” The emotion of the events described finds its way into the structure of sentences. The lack of description of the wedding marks a particularly significant silence, implying the event is too painful to write about. In a novel that is about dispelling deceits and misperceptions, narrators who turn away from uncomfortable details play an important role in obscuring the truth.

“The creature moaned feebly when I looked at it and called to it, but never stirred. I moved away the seat and looked closer. The poor little dog’s eyes were glazing fast, and there were spots of blood on its glossy white side. The misery of a weak, helpless, dumb creature is surely one of the saddest of all the mournful sights which this world can show.”

On her first day at Blackwater, Marian discovers a fatally wounded dog, an event that she considers a bad omen and that foreshadows further acts of violence. Much as Fosco’s controlling treatment of animals reveals his character, this encounter reveals Marian to be compassionate and decisive.

“As Eleanor Fairlie (aged seven-and-thirty), she was always talking pretentious nonsense, and always worrying the unfortunate men with every small exaction which a vain and foolish woman can impose on long-suffering male humanity. As Madame Fosco (aged three-and-forty), she sits for hours together without saying a word, frozen up in the strangest manner in herself.”

Marian here deals lightly and humorously with the idea of women’s transformation through marriage. In the context of the wider novel, however, the passage indicts female subordination within the patriarchal institution of marriage. Madame Fosco’s previous life as Eleanor Fairlie is briefly sketched: Before she was married she was (Marian claims) ridiculous, but even if her characterization is accurate, it seems preferable to the deathlike image of her “frozen up in the strangest manner.”

“He looks like a man who could tame anything. If he had married a tigress, instead of a woman, he would have tamed the tigress. If he had married me, I should have made his cigarettes, as his wife does—I should have held my tongue when he looked at me, as she holds hers.”

This passage connects Count Fosco’s domination of his wife with his treatment of animals: Throughout the novel, he keeps small tame animals like mice and birds, which he is kind to but over which he enjoys exercising control. The comparison of his behavior to “taming” underscores that these pets are symbolic of his relations with women.

“‘Mind that dog, sir,’ said the groom; ‘he flies at everybody!’

‘He does that, my friend,’ replied the Count quietly, ‘because everybody is afraid of him. Let us see if he flies at me.’ And he laid his plump, yellow-white fingers, on which the canary-birds had been perching ten minutes before, upon the formidable brute’s head, and looked him straight in the eyes. ‘You big dogs are all cowards,’ he said, addressing the animal contemptuously, with his face and the dog’s within an inch of each other […]. He turned away, laughing at the astonishment of the men in the yard, and the dog crept back meekly to his kennel.”

Count Fosco is known for his ability to tame people and animals. He keeps many pets which are often personified in a way that resonates with his human relationships, which are equally unequal and controlling. In this scene, he faces down a vicious dog through sheer force of will and, in doing so, reveals himself to be a formidable man capable of subduing anyone (as Marian remarks and as his wife’s transformation attests).

“The morning was windy and cloudy, and the rapid alternations of shadow and sunlight over the waste of the lake made the view look doubly wild, weird, and gloomy.

‘Some people call that picturesque,’ said Sir Percival, pointing over the wide prospect with his half-finished walking-stick. ‘I call it a blot on a gentleman’s property. In my great-grandfather’s time the lake flowed to this place. Look at it now! It is not four feet deep anywhere, and it is all puddles and pools. I wish I could afford to drain it, and plant it all over. My bailiff (a superstitious idiot) says he is quite sure the lake has a curse on it, like the Dead Sea. What do you think, Fosco? It looks just the place for a murder, doesn’t it?’”

Sir Percival’s assessment of his landscape reveals that he is fixated on the idea of possession: He uses the language of property even though he is talking about a view. Though Sir Percival dismisses the bailiff’s beliefs, the reference to curses consolidates the foreboding atmosphere about the place, connecting it to a mysterious and malevolent supernatural power.

“It is truly wonderful […] how easily Society can console itself for the worst of its shortcomings with a little bit of clap-trap. The machinery it has set up for the detection of crime is miserably ineffective—and yet only invent a moral epigram, saying that it works well, and you blind everybody to its blunders from that moment. Crimes cause their own detection, do they? And murder will out (another moral epigram), will it? Ask Coroners who sit at inquests in large towns if that is true, Lady Glyde. Ask secretaries of life-assurance companies if that is true, Miss Halcombe. Read your own public journals. In the few cases that get into the newspapers, are there not instances of slain bodies found, and no murderers ever discovered? Multiply the cases that are reported by the cases that are not reported, and the bodies that are found by the bodies that are not found, and what conclusion do you come to? This. That there are foolish criminals who are discovered, and wise criminals who escape. The hiding of a crime, or the detection of a crime, what is it? A trial of skill between the police on one side, and the individual on the other.”

This discussion encapsulates a key theme of the novel: the interaction of deception and detection. Count Fosco presents this as a battle of wits. This amoral view of crime—with only the unintelligent being caught and the wise getting away with it—makes it clear that Fosco, who considers himself a highly intelligent man, is capable of turning to crime and believes he would get away with it.

“The quiet in the house, and the low murmuring hum of summer insects outside the open window, soothed me. My eyes closed of themselves, and I passed gradually into a strange condition, which was not waking—for I knew nothing of what was going on about me, and not sleeping—for I was conscious of my own repose. In this state my fevered mind broke loose from me, while my weary body was at rest, and in a trance, or day-dream of my fancy—I know not what to call it—I saw Walter Hartright.”

This quotation is the beginning of a long dream sequence in which Marian sees Walter survive disease, attack, and shipwreck while telling her again and again that he will return because he is part of a “Design” that will save Laura. This dream proves prophetic, and the trancelike state in which it occurs creates an eerie atmosphere.

“Am I expected to say anything more? I believe not. I believe I have reached the limits assigned to me. The shocking circumstances which happened at a later period did not, I am thankful to say, happen in my presence. I do beg and entreat that nobody will be so very unfeeling as to lay any part of the blame of those circumstances on me. I did everything for the best. I am not answerable for a deplorable calamity, which it was quite impossible to foresee. I am shattered by it—I have suffered under it, as nobody else has suffered. My servant, Louis (who is really attached to me in his unintelligent way), thinks I shall never get over it. He sees me dictating at this moment, with my handkerchief to my eyes. I wish to mention, in justice to myself, that it was not my fault, and that I am quite exhausted and heartbroken. Need I say more?”

This is Mr. Fairlie’s conclusion to his account of events and his part in them. This passage displays ostentatious emotion that is rendered insincere by his abdication of responsibility (as evidenced by the repetition of variants on “need I say more?”). He is “heartbroken” but also “exhausted”; he cannot express regret for another without also considering the cost to himself.

“The woman with the veiled face moved away from her companion, and came towards me slowly. Left by herself, standing by herself, Marian Halcombe spoke. It was the voice that I remembered—the voice not changed, like the frightened eyes and the wasted face.

‘My dream! my dream!’ I heard her say those words softly in the awful silence.”

This emotional cry from Marian reminds the reader that Marian’s dream is coming true. She dreamed in part of Walter escaping calamities during his travels and returning; however, the final image of a veiled woman rising from her grave is also coming true. Laura is standing over a grave that bears her name and is going to be restored to her former life—figuratively resurrected—through Walter’s aid. This image, then, makes the supernatural element of the novel return to the forefront of the reader’s attention.

“Her mind in this instance, and, as I feared, in other instances besides, confusedly presented to her something which she had only intended to do.”

Walter here interprets an inconsistency in Laura’s story of her kidnapping and interment in the hospital. She believes that she stayed with Mrs. Vesey for one night, but this was only what she had hoped to do. This severely compromises Laura’s credibility and raises questions about what else she might have got wrong. The idea of unreliable narrators has been threaded throughout the novel, but here the mistake is more than biased opinion; it is a glaring factual error. It is important, too, that Walter’s account of this lapse is itself an interpretation—and one based on personal affection.

“‘Sir Percival has a high position in the world,’ I said; ‘it would be no wonder if you were afraid of him. Sir Percival is a powerful man, a baronet, the possessor of a fine estate, the descendant of a great family—’”

This is a key clue, but it is delivered obscurely and sarcastically by Mrs. Catherick, which renders its significance opaque. Mrs. Catherick is a bitter and jealous woman who frequently denigrates other characters. Nevertheless, her allusion to Sir Percival’s mother tips Walter off that there is something to investigate about his parents’ marriage.

“I looked carefully at the entry. It was at the bottom of a page, and was for want of room compressed into a smaller space than that occupied by the marriages above. The marriage immediately before it was impressed on my attention by the circumstance of the bridegroom’s Christian name being the same as my own.”

This is an important piece of material evidence—the register that Sir Percival dies trying to destroy. Walter’s description of it evokes the care and attention with which he handles it, having become an accomplished detective. He takes in the details that will lead him to solve the mystery.

“This is the nearest approach that any theory of mine can make towards accounting for a result which was visible matter of fact. As I have described them, so events passed to us outside. As I have related it, so his body was found.”

This is a further example of Walter’s description mirroring his careful and observant detective work. There are many passages throughout the novel in which he develops his suppositions based on clues. Here he tries to imagine Sir Percival’s final moments based on what he observed.

“As this surmise floated through my mind, there rose on my memory the remembrance of the Scripture denunciation which we have all thought of in our time with wonder and with awe: ‘The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children.’”

The passage evokes the Bible to describe the moral tangles that led to the mistreatment and early death of Anne Catherick. The allusion underscores Anne’s blamelessness.

“There he lay, unowned, unknown, exposed to the flippant curiosity of a French mob!”

This describes the final encounter Walter has with Fosco, whom he finds displayed for identification in the Paris morgue. This is an ignominious end for such a proud man, but it is also poetic justice: He ends up “unowned” and “unknown” after attempting to condemn Anne to that fate.