At the end of their respective novels, Lily Bart and Edna Pontellier are dead. Carrie
Meeber rocks endlessly, perpetually desiring that which she cannot name or will herself to find.
The prospect of fulfillment and autonomy, and the chance to consummate an authentic identity,
are lost. The tragic fates of these heroines serve as more than just dramatic endings; rather, they
speak to a challenge confronting many women at the turn of the twentieth century and the
absence of an adequate solution. Female figures in literature have long reflected women’s status
in society, often mirroring accepted views about their roles as wives, mothers, and submissive
inhabitants of the domestic sphere. However, literature of the late Gilded Age addresses an
emerging female prototype of the “New Woman,” a term popularized by novelist Henry James.
Though this new breed of female rejects traditional Victorian values and seeks greater levels of
autonomy beyond the confines of the cult of true womanhood, her fate within many novels is
typically tragic. Theodore Dreiser’s Sister Carrie, Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth, and
Kate Chopin’s The Awakening all belong to this genre of Gilded Age literature that explores the
challenges and fate of the New Woman. Each novel features a female protagonist that possesses
characteristics of this New Woman, challenging her traditional role as a female bound to
marriage and motherhood but consumed with a quest for unnamed desires that are never
satisfied. The similar fates of Carrie, Lily, and Edna, which echo the fates of many other females
in novels of this era, suggest such are authorial responses and attempts to make sense of an
emerging social pattern that complicates issues of desire and identity for women.
The turn of the twentieth century introduced new opportunities for female economic
independence. During this Second Industrial Revolution, waves of young, single women
migrated to urban areas and achieved new levels of fiscal autonomy, living in environments that
fostered extroversion and sexual inhibition (Matthews 13). These changes in female social
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behavior consequently weakened the feminine tradition of confinement within the domestic
sphere. The Victorian ideals of women as wives and mothers became increasingly substituted
with new notions of women establishing their own timelines for marriage and maternity, or
abstaining from either altogether. As historian Jean Matthews states: “What woman looked to as
they marched confidently into the next century was a new, improved womanhood and
motherhood that would make its decisive print on a better society” (Matthews 35). Though these
prospects excited women, many experienced difficulty translating their new desires into words,
actions, and a comprehensible identity. The emergence of Henry James’ “New Woman” in
literature acknowledges this challenge; as James wrote, “I asked myself what was the most
salient and peculiar point in our social life. The answer was: the situation of women, the decline
of the sentiment sex, the agitation on their behalf” (Matthews 1). For women like Lily and Edna,
the adoption of New Woman characteristics—dependent upon the transplantation of location and
class—was not a realistic option, while Carrie’s emotional dissatisfaction, in spite of her
commitment to the lifestyle of the New Woman, suggests the challenge to negotiate identity and
perpetual desire remained problematic for many New women across class and region.
The fates of fallen New women have largely been interpreted through a naturalist lens,
with its emphasis on social and biological determinates of character and behavior. Naturalist
critics such as Donald Pizer, Philip Fisher, and Nancy Walker view their failures as
consequences of social environments or the denial of the female biological ability to nurture and
procreate. Fisher argues that novels such as Sister Carrie exemplify this philosophy, attributing
Carrie’s unfulfilled desires to consequences of a Darwinian social order and Carrie’s biological
nature to seek improvement and ascend this hierarchy (Pizer 34). Naturalist critics likewise
perceive the decline of Lily Bart as a realist depiction of the effects of her demanding social class
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in which females are dependent upon marriage, and heredity that fails to provide her the
working-class skills necessary for financial independence. Caren Towns also explains Lily’s
demise through a naturalist perspective in comparing Carrie’s ability to adapt and conform to her
environment (and thus survive) to Lily’s lack of this same trait (Towns 44). Edna Pontellier’s
suicide is likewise attributed to rejection of the biological calling of motherhood, as Donald Pizer
writes that “Although Edna can dismiss the Victorian idealization of the ‘mother-woman,’ she is
unable to counter the instinctive hold that her children have upon her” (Pizer 7).
This naturalist perspective, with its considerations of biological determinates of behavior
and the social constructs of female identity, is indeed important in discerning the causes of the
failures of these women. Naturalism provides an important framework in which to interpret the
Gilded Age ideas of consumerism and identity in contemporary literature. Yet, a complication
arises when comparing The House of Mirth, Sister Carrie, and The Awakening in conjunction.
While critical analyses of these novels often privilege social forces, particularly motherhood,
marriage, and femininity, (and though these do contribute to the discontent and desire of these
women), Edna, Lily, and Carrie are shaped by distinctly different social environments and
classes, and maintain different relationships to marriage and motherhood. Carrie is a married yet
childless woman from a rural, middle-class background, yet Lily is as a single woman born into
the wealth of New York’s leisure class. Edna provides a sharper contrast as a wife and mother of
two immersed in the Creole culture of New Orleans’ upper-class. These marked differences
between characters suggest that the presence of a broader, more deeply-rooted cause beyond
biology and surface social structures explains the shared unexpressed desires that shape the
actions and fates of each woman.
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This underlying force was complicated by consumerism. This patriarchal economic
system saturated every facet of life in the Gilded Age and defined the role and function of
women. Scholar Luce Irigaray argues that the very structure of economics is dependent upon the
subjugation and exchange of women as commodities, stating “woman thus has value only in that
she can be exchanged,” and that the only way to change such would include “socializing a
different relation to language” (Irigaray 176-91). Thus, even the language of the Gilded Age was
dictated by this culture of consumerism and reinforced patriarchal structures by applying
principles of commoditization and objectification of material goods to describe women.
Contemporary economist Thorstein Veblen offers insight into this patriarchal culture, observing
the proclivity of society to engage in conspicuous consumption—the purchase of material goods
for the purpose of acquiring status. As Veblen notes, “The means of communication and the
mobility of a population now expose the individual to the observation of many persons who have
no other means of judging his reputability than the display of goods (and perhaps breeding)
which he is able to make while he is under their direct observation” (Veblen 86). Dreiser,
Wharton, and Chopin each demonstrate the ways in which their heroines are limited by the
discourse of consumerism, as this exclusive construct of communication influences the actions,
rationalizations, and vocalizations of each heroine.
This culmination of continual desire, a motif of the unspoken, and the inadequacy of
social and biological explanations to these problems indicates that the absence of language is in
fact at play. The heroine of each novel and her subsequent challenge to name desire reflects the
presence of an intersection between gender and language, as during the age of female
progressivism in which Dreiser, Wharton, and Chopin write, the new roles and desires sought by
women lack adequate meaning in a society that communicates exclusively within a patriarchal
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context, permeated with the discourse of consumerism. While Carrie, Lily, and Edna are
markedly different, they all operate within and are limited by the same patriarchal language that
posits the female as object desiring other objects, rather than the subject of her own desires. The
theories of Jacques Lacan, Helene Cixous, Dale Spender and Luce Irigaray contribute to an
understanding of this relationship between language and women. Lacan’s concept of the
“Symbolic Order” observes language as male-dominated and reveals how the perpetuation of
female inferiority in linguistics sets the parameters for female inferiority in society. Lacan states
that this phallocentric “Symbolic Order” is the learned language that replaces the Imaginary we
are born with—the Imaginary referring to the stage at which children have not consciously
separated themselves from the mother (Lacan 161-2). While Lacan hesitates to claim that
language oppresses the female sex, French feminists like Helene Cixous interrogate and expand
his theories that posit the female as subject and argue that language does in fact perpetuate these
Laws of the Father, and inherently limits women (Cixous). Dale Spender’s Man-Made Language
more specifically explores the oppressive nature of the English language, noting the inequality in
words applicable to men in comparison to women, as well as the inequality of negative
connotations of words when applied to men and women, an inequality which shapes society’s
expectations and attitudes towards the female sex. As Spender argues, it is not that women lack
the intellectual capability to express higher thoughts and desires; rather, it is that language offers
no meaningful possibilities for such articulation (Spender 35). These linguistic theories
contribute to an explanation of how despite differences in naturalistic forces, the heroines of
these novels are faced with similar fates; for it is language that transects both society and biology
and creates complications of identity among women of this era.
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Sister Carrie, The House of Mirth, and The Awakening thus present an intersection of
language and gender, with language as the driving force behind social and biological factors. The
absence of adequate language more accurately explains the discontent and tragic fates of each
heroine, as there exists no language with which to articulate their desires or rejection of
motherhood and marriage, no means by which to assert the longing for a greater sense of
autonomy. This linguistic vacuum obscures these characters from conceptualizing and
comprehending their own feelings, both internally and verbally. The result of this inability
becomes the primary causal factor for Edna and Lily’s demise and Carrie’s discontent, for
society has yet to provide these women with any satisfying means for expression or action to
fulfill their intense, yet rather ambiguous desires.
Desire is the driving force that shapes each heroine’s fate. The presence of perpetual
desire in Sister Carrie, The House of Mirth, and The Awakening is well-established in literary
scholarship. A synthesis of these existing critiques reveals that these desires are most importantly
cyclical and inarticulate in nature, and act as the mechanisms that problematize each heroine’s
identity as a New Woman. Each heroine attempts to adopt various characteristics of the New
Woman through fiscal independence and redefinition of female social expectations, yet their
cyclical patterns of satisfaction and disappointment in attempting to achieve these goals suggests
that these heroines do not maintain desires with achievable appeasement, at least in any fashion
of which Lily, Edna, and Carrie are cognizant. While each woman seeks that which she believes
will sequester her sense of longing, nothing provides lasting satisfaction. This ceaseless,
unnamed desire ultimately becomes that which acts upon each objectified heroine, rather than
that which they learn to act upon as subjects.
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In Sister Carrie, Carrie Meeber’s desires center on advancement in wealth and social
status through participation in capitalism, and Carrie finds success in these pursuits. However,
this success does not result in the appeasement of Carrie’s desire, nor does she verbally
recognize ceaseless nature of her desire. Dreiser presents Carrie as a “New Woman” prototype,
suggesting her conscious desires are in line with those of this emerging sect of women.
Throughout the course of the novel, Carrie rises from a poor, working-class shop girl in Chicago
to a lead actress on Broadway, improving her social status, financial independence, and career.
Like her New Woman contemporaries, Carrie abstains from motherhood but interprets marriage
as both a requirement for moral cohabitation and a means to advance her social standing,
ultimately abandoning her commitment to the institution through her separation with Hurstwood.
Yet Carrie’s ascension is wrought with experiences expressed in cyclical patterns of poverty and
wealth, success and failure, marriage and bachelorhood. Carrie ultimately achieves mobility in
terms of her financial success and career as a Broadway actress; however, reoccurring setbacks
re-emphasize the reality that though Carrie fully adopts the New Woman identity—moving to
the city, becoming financially independent, and diverging from traditional marital behavior—she
ultimately cannot emerge from a pattern of continuous longing. Dreiser encapsulates a
microcosm of this pattern in Carrie’s search for a job upon arriving in Chicago, as Carrie
fluctuates between hope and despair from varying managerial responses to her inquiries: “With
the wane of the afternoon went her hopes, her courage, and her strength” (Dreiser 20). Yet
shortly following, Carrie’s hopes are restored with the prospect of work in a shoe-factory: “He
left her revived by the possibilities, sure that she had found something at last. Instantly the blood
crept warmly over her body. Her nervous tension relaxed” (Dreiser 21). However, Carrie’s
contentment proves transient throughout the rest of the novel, for as with her job search, each
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success is fleeting and replaced with more desire. Such suggests the absence of any means that
may provide genuine satisfaction.
Dreiser constructs Carrie as both transitory and restless in what she seeks. Carrie
continuously exchanges residences, surnames, and husbands as a reaction to her cyclical
experiences of elation and disappointment. Moving from Minnie’s to Drouet’s to Hurstwood’s,
ending at the Wellington Hotel on Broadway, Carrie continually exchanges location as an
expression of her cyclical and ceaseless desire. Carrie’s constant discontent compels her to
continually seek capitalistic practices of exchange and consumption. Unsatisfied in her
relationship with Drouet, Carrie seeks exchange by engaging in an emotional affair with George
Hurstwood, a man she considers more refined, intellectual, and successful, and who initially
provides her a period of happiness. Yet her relationship with Hurstwood quickly wanes as it had
with Drouet, and Carrie abandons marriage altogether, only to find that even as a single woman
the contentment absent in her relationships remains elusive. This constant restlessness and
exchange in turn reveals Carrie’s lack of stability and of subjective reflection of the cause of her
persistent desires.
While Carrie achieves independence wealth, fame, and status, she continues to
ceaselessly desire. Even acting, that which she seems to love most, remains a source of worry
and stress regardless of salary or the capacity of her role. By the end of the novel after Carrie has
long secured a spot on Broadway, yet she still rocks in her chair, at one point brooding over the
choice to depart from her comedic roles: “Still, she did nothing—grieving. It was a long way to
this better thing—or seemed so—and comfort was about her, hence inactivity and longing”
(Dreiser 357). Dreiser juxtaposes her supposed comfort with “inactivity and longing,” while
emphasizing that this stagnation, even if comfortable, brings Carrie grief and generates desire.
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Dreiser’s reoccurring image of Carrie rocking serves as a symbol for Carrie’s discontent; the
final image of Carrie in her hotel suite most explicitly communicates the notion of perpetual
desire: “In your rocking chair, by your window dreaming, shall you long, alone. In your rockingchair, by your window, shall you dream such happiness as you may never feel” (Dreiser 369).
Thus, the repeating cycle of success and disappointment Carrie faces in spite of her faithful
adherence to the “New Woman” lifestyle complicates the notion that simply acquiring capital
and status offers a final solution to the complexities accompanying women’s evolving identities
in the Gilded Age. Dreiser therefore alludes that on a deeper, subconscious level Carrie desires
something beyond that which society intends to satisfy her conscious mind.
Similarly, in The House of Mirth, Lily Bart’s descent from leisure-class luxury to
impoverished destitution mirrors the cyclical nature of desire experienced by both Edna and
Carrie. While Lily experiences an overall decline in status, wealth, and spirit, she too faces
waves of satisfaction and disappointment, repeatedly pursuing courses of action she hopes will
resolve her discontent. Throughout the novel, Lily embarks on a cycle of self-sabotage,
extinguishing all prospects of a lucrative marriage or restoring her waning reputation as a
desirable bachelorette, battling internally with what she desires and what she realizes will
provide for her accustomed lifestyle. William Moddelmog identifies this struggle, writing that
“As Lily oscillates between dreams of marriage and equally strong impulses to maintain her
independence, her inner turmoil marks the threat to the concept of ‘personality’ posed by the
notion of female privacy,” (Moddelmog 339). While Lily almost secures the wealthy Percy
Gryce as a fiancé, enticed by a future where “she would be able to arrange her life as she
pleased,” once at the Trenor’s estate, she suddenly decides against any prospects of an
engagement and Percy departs early (Wharton 49). Lily does not fully recognize or articulate her
Giza 10
reasons for this self-sabotage, Wharton merely writes that “poor Lily, for all the hard glaze of her
exterior, was inwardly as malleable as wax…she was like a water-plant in the flux of the tides,
and today the whole current was carrying her toward Lawrence Selden” (Wharton 53). This
fluctuation in disposition appears multiple times within the novel, reaffirming the existence of a
cycle of temporary satisfaction and desire.
Desire’s manifestation as the problematic driving force that shapes Lily’s actions and fate
emerges through her membership within influential social circles. Leisure class beliefs and
values often conflict with the personal beliefs and values Lily has yet to articulate, and offers a
misleading notion of what appeases desire. Lily’s decisions to accompany the Dorsets on their
Mediterranean cruise and the Gormers on their trip to Alaska indicate her false assumption that
inclusion in leisure-class activity will sequester, rather than enhance, her dissatisfaction. While
both excursions provide Lily hiatus from the financial and social worries that await her back in
New York, both are tinged with the bitter reality that these leisure-class compatriots don’t always
have her best interest at heart; Bertha Dorset’s allegations of an affair with husband George
Dorset the most significant example. These trips also echo the transitory and restless nature of
Carrie, suggesting both express desire in this similar fashion. Wharton offers many instances of
Lily’s oscillating temperaments of optimism and pessimism towards her social class, her
evolving place within it, and her outlook on life in general. As she writes of Lily early in the
novel, “Life was not the mockery she had thought it three days ago. There was room for her,
after all, in this crowded selfish pleasure whence, so short a time since, her poverty seemed to
exclude her” (Wharton 50). Of course, this perspective is retracted and reinstated multiple times
throughout the novel, as identified a mere five pages later: “How different they [her friends] had
seemed to her a few hours ago! Then they had symbolized what she was gaining, now they stood
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for what she was giving up. That very afternoon they had seemed full of brilliant qualities; now
she saw that they were merely loud in a dull way” (Wharton 55). Lily thus struggles to maintain
consistency and achieve complacency because her means of doing so are inherently inadequate.
Participation in leisure-class lifestyle proves continually unfulfilling, and while at times Lily
recognizes this inadequacy, she stops short of verbalizing and pursuing an alternative avenue for
happiness.
The vacillating nature of Lily’s desires is further exemplified in the disjunct between
Lily’s outward projection of marriage as her foremost desire, and actions that speak otherwise.
Though Wharton suggests Lily rejects her classes’ perspective of marriage as a mechanism for
acquiring wealth and status, the figure of Lawrence Selden complicates an understanding of
precisely what Lily seeks. While men like Simon Rosedale serve as the antithesis to Lily’s vision
of marriage, viewing the institution “in terms of business-like give and take,” Selden offers Lily
an opportunity for marriage founded not upon an exchange of commodities, but one built upon
emotional and intellectual compatibility (Wharton 259). Moreover, Selden’s ideas about personal
freedom in his “republic of the spirit,” and distinction as one who “had never forgotten the way
out” of society’s cage appeal to Lily’s own desires to break from social convention (Wharton
55). Lily’s behavior towards Selden confirms her affection in many instances, as she lets her
“hand lie in his a moment, smiling up at him adorably,” converses with him at length on the lawn
at Bellomont, anxiously awaiting his parlor visits, and protects his reputation by burning his
letters from Bertha Dorset (Wharton 13). Yet, woven within these exhibitions of interest in
Selden are those of uncharacteristic apathy and rejection, which at times Selden reciprocates:
“Why do you do this to me?’ she cried. Why do you make the things I have chosen seem hateful
to me, if you have nothing to give me instead?” (Wharton 72). Lily’s erratic behavior towards
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Selden inhibits the fruition of a romantic relationship, and the vague language accompanying
these behaviors suggests Lily does not fully comprehend the nature of her desires.
Desire functions as the primary mechanism for Edna’s actions in The Awakening as well.
The awakened state of consciousness Edna achieves, accompanied by new desires, problematizes
her identities as a wife and mother. This new consciousness gives Edna “an indescribable
oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her
whole being with a vague anguish;” Edna recognizes she is unhappy, but the nature of this
unhappiness remains elusive (Chopin 6). Edna does recognize that her roles as a wife and mother
are wholly insufficient to the development of her individual personhood, exhibiting despondence
towards a husband she never married for love and maintaining rather schizophrenic affection
towards her young sons. “Failing in her duty toward their children” and lacking the skills of a
“mother-woman,” Edna’s rejection of traditional female identities and interests is further
exacerbated when juxtaposed with the ethereal “faultless Madonna” of Adele Ratignolle (Chopin
10). Adele functions as a foil to Edna’s new level of consciousness and serves as perhaps Edna’s
most definite understanding of her own desires—for Adele reminds Edna of all that she wishes
to transcend. As Chopin writes of Edna’s views on the Ratignolle marriage, “The little glimpse
of domestic harmony which had been offered her, gave her no regret, no longing. It was not a
condition of life which fitted her, and she could see in it but a hopeless an appalling ennui”
(Chopin 56). While Edna possesses strong desires, the “domestic harmony” displayed by the
Ratignolle family is not among them; here Wharton solidifies the reality that marriage and
motherhood, no matter how harmonious it can be, cannot and does not fulfill Edna’s longings.
Though Edna is cognizant of her internal paradigm shift, she remains unable to
adequately accommodate these new feelings and desires. Like Dreiser, Chopin too presents
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Edna’s struggle with desire in a cyclical fashion by demonstrating her trial and error process of
pursuing outlets that provide only immediate, temporary satisfaction. Her infatuation with Robert
LeBrun exemplifies her false conception of what may appease her persistent unhappiness.
Dissatisfied with her husband’s distant and controlling demeanor, Edna seeks a relationship with
the erotic, one of passion, intimacy, and connection on a deeper emotional level: “The sentiment
which she entertained for Robert in no way resembled that which she felt for her husband, or
ever had felt, or ever expected to feel” (Chopin 47). Her proximity and close friendship with
Robert poses as the most convenient answer to this longing, though Chopin writes “Edna could
not have told why, wishing to go to the beach with Robert, she should in the first place have
declined, and in the second place have followed in obedience to one of the two contradictory
impulses which impelled her” (Chopin 13). Edna’s motivation to be with Robert remains slightly
ambiguous even as she pursues his affections, and here Chopin reinforces Edna’s struggle to
conceptualize and articulate her desires. While Edna’s interactions with Robert ignite her
sensuality and passion, Robert’s departure to Mexico and unwillingness to abandon social code
to pursue a relationship leaves Edna overwhelmed with a sense of hopelessness: “The present
alone was significant; was hers, to torture her as it was doing then with the biting conviction that
she had lost which she had held, that she had been denied that which impassioned her, newly
awakened being demanded” (Chopin 45). Even her affair with Alcee Arobin, a man who
proactively seeks her attention and offers her immediate gratification, fails to culminate into a
relationship Edna can plausibly accept. While Alcee demonstrates a greater degree of interest,
passion, and physical affection towards Edna than does Robert, Edna refuses to allow herself to
submit to his passions—thinking not only of Robert whom is still away in Mexico, but of the
broader social implications of such an affair. Rather than satisfying her desires, Edna’s pursuit of
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extra-marital relationships only creates complications and heartache and fails to offer any
solution to her perpetual discontent. The erotic provides Edna immediate happiness but this
always cycles back to longing. At the conclusion of the novel Edna finally acknowledges this
inadequacy, as Chopin writes of Robert that “she even realized that the day would come when
he, too, and the thought of him, would melt out of her existence, leaving her alone” (Chopin
115). Edna’s romantic endeavors ultimately appear in a cyclical pattern of highs and lows,
concluding circularly as Edna remains as discontent as she did at the beginning of her
awakening.
As Edna attempts connection with the erotic through romance to appease desire, she also
seeks erotic satisfaction through art. The musically-gifted and reclusive Mademoiselle Reisz
offers Edna a glimpse at a future of independence and artistic expression, unbound by marriage,
motherhood, and social convention. In many ways, Mademoiselle Reisz functions on her own
frequency, speaking and acting as she pleases and exuding a deep sense of creativity and
connection with the arts. Interested in establishing a deeper connection with these passions, Edna
begins actively painting once more, enrolling in private art lessons and pursuing the craft as a
means for expression rather than a social practice. However, Edna realizes that while
Mademoiselle Reisz is a representation of an appealing alternate identity, she embodies only a
fragment of the larger identity Edna seeks. Though Edna gains immediate satisfaction from
painting, the prospect of a life immersed in the arts yet one of solitude remains unappealing; as
critic Ivy Schweitzer notes of Mademoiselle Reisz, “Anti-social, asexual, and non-maternal,
Mademoiselle Reisz is an accomplished musician who, at the expense of intimacy and
attachment, pursues a career and achieves individuation and autonomy” (Schweitzer 170). Edna
recognizes she cannot forsake this intimacy and attachment, and also indirectly acknowledges
Giza 15
painting does not exist as the root of her desire: “She isn’t a musician and I’m not a painter. It
isn’t on account of painting that I let things go” (Chopin 79). Thus, as with her experimentation
with extra-marital affairs, her attempt at a life of artistic devotion leaves Edna right where she
began—awakened and unsatisfied.
Like Carrie and Lily, Edna’s desires manifest as transitory and restless as well. She
abandons her residence on Esplanade Street to move to the much smaller, yet entirely
autonomous “pigeon house,” postulating this greater degree of solitude and freedom will qualm
her continuous discontent. Edna initially revels in the sanctity of her new home: “The pigeonhouse pleased her. It at once assumed the intimate character of a home, while she herself
invested it with a charm which reflected like a warm glow. There was with her a feeling of
having risen in the spiritual.” (Chopin 94). Edna uses her new residence to exert control and
acquire an individuation that seems to fulfill her awakened state of consciousness; though here
too, Chopin’s indirect language reinforces that Edna has not yet clearly defined these emotions.
Rather, they are expressed more abstractly as “like a warm glow” and “a feeling of having”
(Chopin 94). While the pigeon-house allows Edna autonomy and provides an initial sense of
satisfaction, a more apparent sense of isolation soon follows. Edna’s visit to her children in
Iberville shortly after her move makes Edna increasingly cognizant of the absence of
companionship in her isolated quarters: “All along the journey homeward their presence lingered
with her like the memory of a delicious song. But by the time she had regained the city the song
no longer echoed in her soul. She was again alone” (Chopin 95). This oscillation of emotional
highs and lows suggests that even as Edna rejects exclusive identity as a mother, she cannot
thrive in the isolation that accompanies her terms of autonomy.
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Edna’s gradual disrobing throughout the novel signals the cyclical and unnamed nature of
her desires as well. Chopin uses Edna’s clothing as both a figurative and literal representation of
that which confines and oppresses her; her removal of clothing is thus an expression of desire for
autonomy and control. During her afternoon at Madame Antoine’s, Edna “loosened her clothes,
removing the greater part of them…she took off her shoes and stocking and stretched herself,”
allowing her to reconnect with her natural, authentic self: “She looked at her round arms as she
held them straight up and rubbed them one after the other, observing closely, as if it were
something she saw for the first time, the fine, firm quality and texture of her flesh” (Chopin 36).
Edna’s choice to “not wear her usual Tuesday reception gown,” and instead don an “ordinary
house dress” also reflects her attempts to exert control, stating she neglected her reception duties
because “I simply felt like going out, and I went out” (Chopin 51). While in the short-term these
episodes satisfy her desire to rebel against her husband’s and society’s impositions and
expectations, even as Edna stands fully disrobed on the beach of Grand Isle in Chopin’s closing
scene, her choice of suicide suggests that this abandonment of social expectation still does not
fully appease her desires. Edna remains as confined naked as she does in full dress, further
emphasizing the ultimately circular condition of her desires and circumstance. Though Chopin
writes that “there was not one thing in the world that she desired,” Edna actually never ceases to
desire; rather, she is fails articulate what it is she does or could desire (Chopin 115).
Desire manifests itself in a distinct manner in Sister Carrie, The House of Mirth, and The
Awakening. Its perpetual, cyclical, unnamable existence perplexes each heroine and complicates
conceptualizations of their identities and futures. Dreiser, Wharton, and Chopin reveal that the
age-old question of “what women want” extends beyond traditional aims of matrimony,
marriage, wealth, and status, and further frames their varying New women desires as complex
Giza 17
and problematic to an understanding of themselves. While the acquisition of autonomy,
independence, and the erotic are in a broad sense their end objectives, each heroine’s rejection of
opportunities for such or persistent discontent upon acquisition suggests that these too, are not
exclusively what Carrie, Lily, and Edna seek. The exact nature of their desires are never
adequately understood or expressed and this functions as the most significant characteristic of
desire in each novel. This absence of articulation, direct expression, and finite objectives,
signifies that these heroines not only share desires cyclical and unappeasable in nature, but that
the continuity of this desire is in fact exacerbated and perpetuated by the very fact that it remains
obscured beneath a veil of inadequate linguistic signs and signifiers.
What these heroines can name, however, is communicated through the discourse of
consumerism. The consumerist culture of the Gilded Age offers inadequate linguistic signs and
signifiers that complicates Lily, Carrie, and Edna’s abilities to understand their own cyclical
desires. This consumerist culture shapes the identity and language of the era and of the New
Woman, and ultimately exists as society’s exclusive discourse. Modern American consumerism
originated in 1850s as a result of growing social and gender distinctions and “created new
opportunities to use consumer goods to establish separate identity or to react against otherwise
demeaning forms of social change” (Stearns 41). By the turn of the twentieth century, the
ideologies of capitalism and materialism saturated American society, and social constructs like
marriage and status were perceived through the lens of wealth, exchange value, and abstract
signifiers. This cultural climate of consumerism also heightened attention towards women, who
became targeted as the primary consumers of fashion, accessories, and domestic products.
However, as Peter Stearns observes, this new focus on women was both progressive and
limiting: “It involved women in new constraints and obligations-many of which have persisted
Giza 18
and intensified even to the present day. But it also gave them new opportunities for selfexpression, consumerist style” (Stearns 32). Yet, rather than expression as verbal articulation of
desire for autonomy and identity divorced from maternal and marital roles, consumerism offered
expression through the consumption of material goods and construction of identity through
objectification that did not adequately address the aims of the New Woman. Consequently,
women were further acculturated to act as objects desiring other objects, rather than desiring
subjects.
As economist Jean Baudrillard argues, consumerism is itself a discourse. Baudrillard sees
consumerism “as a system similar to that of language,” and “views consumption as a discourse
or language or in a Levi-Straussian term, a kinship system” (Nia 1). Consumerism acts as a
means of communication, for it is a “system consisting of endless signs” which can be
“understood and analyzed systematically” (Nia 3). This perception of consumerism as language
is integral to understanding the perpetuity of desire experienced by the heroines of Sister Carrie,
The House of Mirth, and The Awakening, for it supports textual evidence that each heroine’s
relationship with the material is not only an attempt to fulfill their desires, but a means of
expression. The pervasiveness of consumerism in society during the Gilded Age, “pumped into
the American discourse at all levels,” and defined personhood as dependent upon the acquisition
of property and became the exclusive context in which to perceive and understand relationships
(Scanlon 13). This rise of commodity fetish, in which people conceptualized relationships
between humans through an economic lens, also demonstrates how consumerism acts a
discourse, using material objects as signs to signify characteristics of social constructs.
The inherent paternalistic nature of consumerism further explains why seeking fulfillment
and expression through this discourse inadequately serves women of the era, for they are objects
Giza 19
“consumed” by men. Luce Irigaray argues the commoditization of woman is essential to the
functioning of a capitalistic society, asserting that “just as nature has to be subjected to man in
order to become a commodity, so it appears, does the development of a normal woman. A
development that amounts, for the feminine, to subordination to the forms and laws of masculine
activity” (Irigaray 187). This subordination of female to male further emphasizes woman’s
“other” or inferior position in society, for consumerism acts as a mechanism that uses, but does
not adequately serve, this sex. The juxtaposition of the New Woman’s emerging desires with the
consumerist culture in the Gilded Age obscures recognition and comprehension of these desires.
Not only does consumerist culture posit women as objects, it persuades women that their true
desires lie in material objects. Critic Jennifer Scanlon states that the pursuit of the material was
reinforced through the abundant advertising of the Gilded Age (Scanlon 13). The Ladies’ Home
Journal was and influential advertiser of consumerist ideology, and the journal’s fictitious stories
often “imitated advertising when they concluded that the consumption of goods satisfied a
heroine’s autonomy or marital happiness,” a conclusion reflected in the works of Chopin,
Wharton, and Dreiser. Scanlon argues that, “by tying middle-class women’s inarticulate longings
to consumption, the Journal, the J. Walter Thompson advertising agency, and the larger
consumer culture of the early twentieth century succeeded both in bolstering capitalism and in
nurturing patriarchy” (Scanlon 230). The relationship between inarticulate longing and
consumerism exists as the most dominant characterization of Gilded Age society in Dreiser,
Wharton, and Chopin’s novels and further solidifies the connection between consumerism and
language.
Dreiser exemplifies the economically-fuelled life of the Gilded age through his depiction
of Chicago as an urban landscape of industrious workers and frugal managers, excessive
Giza 20
materialism, and continuous forms of exchange. Carrie’s sister Minnie and her husband Hanson,
in many ways Dreiser’s working-class couple prototype, reflect a deep concern with
employment, income, and materialism, to the extent that they view Carrie almost exclusively as a
source of income. Dreiser thus demonstrates from the onset of his novel the highly capitalistic
and consumer-driven environment in which his heroine will attempt to thrive. Carrie reacts to
this environment by attempting to define herself in relation to the material throughout the novel.
Dreiser emphasizes this relationship by describing Carrie in terms of her surrounding objects
throughout her evolving economic statuses as an impoverished, middle-class, and wealthy
woman. Carrie is introduced by her “small trunk, a cheap imitation alligator-skin satchel, a small
lunch in a paper box, and a yellow leather snap purse,” with Dreiser writing that “Carrie was
doing better, that he knew. Her clothes were improved now, even fine, and later notes that she
was “in even greater feather” (Dreiser 1, 323). Clare Virginia Eby explores consumerism’s
effects on Carrie, stating that her actions throughout the novel are based upon the realization of
her own “contrasts” to other Chicagoans in terms of material wealth, and her ability to compare
“her self and its objects to others and rapidly reconstructs a new self in her mind. Resolved to
enhance her personal value, Carrie sets out to transform ‘who and what she was’” (Eby 194).
Eby addresses an important concept raised by Thorstein Veblen and other scholars—that of
emulation and invidious comparison. Veblen frames the relationship between economics and
human behavior through an understanding of emulation as the strongest motive, aside from selfpreservation, that determines an individual’s self-worth; one’s “good name,” and in turn “selfcomplacency” are dependent upon the accumulation of goods (Veblen 37). This relationship
asserts that individuation cannot be distinct from participation in consumerism. As the novel
progresses and Drouet, a man of material expression in the highest sense, intervenes, Carrie’s
Giza 21
articulation begins to develop. The problem, however, is that such articulation is embedded in
the discourse of consumerism, for Drouet teaches Carrie to posit herself as an object of desire
rather a desiring subject.
As Carrie acquires capital and becomes more participatory in the discourse of
consumerism, her interest in consumption increases rather than subsides. This suggests that
consumerist culture exacerbates, rather than appeases desire. Her invidious comparison persists
as well: “She can afford to dress well, thought Carrie, and so could I, if I could only keep my
money. I haven’t a decent tie of any kind to wear” (Dreiser 285). She also begins to depend on
material objects as signifiers of her happiness, her optimistic or pessimistic outlooks directly
correlated to her current state of finance: “Ladies rustled by in dresses of stiff cloth, shedding
affected smiles and perfume…The rouged and powdered cheeks and lips, the scented hair, the
large, misty, and languorous eye, were common enough…The whole street bore the flavour of
riches and show, and Carrie felt that she was not of it…she resolved that she would not come
here again until she looked better. At the same time she longed to feel the delight of parading
here as an equal. Ah, then she would be happy!” (Dreiser 227). Lori Merish notes this
dependence and further observes that Carrie’s participation also leads to an identity as an object
“while Carrie is ‘learning to look’—becoming an active consumer subject—she is also learning
to see herself as an object according to increasingly exacting commodity standards of taste and
social distinction” (Nia 4).
The “voice of the so-called inanimate” that speaks to Carrie demonstrates consumerism’s
problematic function in Carrie’s understanding of her desires. As Dreiser writes, “Fine clothes to
her were a vast persuasion; they spoke tenderly and Jesuitically for themselves. When she came
within earshot of their pleading, desire in her bent a willing ear. The voice of the so-called
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inanimate! Who shall translate us the language of the stones? "My dear," said the lace collar she
secured from Partridge's, "I fit you beautifully; don't give me up." "Ah, such little feet," said the
leather of the soft new shoes; "how effectively I cover them. What a pity they should ever want
my aid" (Dreiser 106). These voices maintain a very “real” grip on Carrie’s psyche, reinforcing
the notion that material objects are to be desired. Such personification also demonstrates
consumerism’s ability to act as a discourse itself; yet as Dreiser illustrates at the conclusion of
the novel, the satisfaction these voices promise proves fallible, transient, and unfulfilling.
Carrie’s emphasis on the capital security her suitors can provide and her willingness to
exchange and upgrade men further speaks to the level at which she ultimately immerses herself
in this society of consumerism. Her first inclinations towards Drouet are rooted in his superior
status as a man of wealth, showcased through his expensive clothing, dinners, theater tickets, and
other material gifts. Carrie’s affections for Hurstwood are guided by this same aim to discern his
potential material benefit, as she notes that his “stout figure, large white bosom, and shining
pin,” and those of his fellow businessmen, indicate “the character of their success” (Dreiser 185).
Carrie’s behavior seems to support Debra Ann MacComb’s theory that “Americans internalized
the model of continuous consumption and carried it beyond the purchase and disposal habits
associated with clothing, appliances, and furniture,” reaffirming the notion that consumerism
extended beyond the realm of economics and into social, marital, gender and even language
structures (MacComb 771). Carrie even views her role in relationship dynamics as dependent
upon material signifiers, as Dreiser writes that “She knew that she had improved in appearance.
Her manner had vastly changed. Her clothes were becoming, and men—well-dressed men, some
of the kind who had before gazed at her indifferently…now gazed into her face with a soft light
in their eyes. This perception of relationships as commoditized exchanges emphasizes Carrie’s
Giza 23
indoctrination in the discourse of consumerism and her function as an object. As Helen Ouliaei
and Fatemeh Torki Baghbaderani argue, “Carrie is treated as a commodity by men in society and
therefore she cannot be herself but what others like her to be. This point is manifestly
exemplified in the passage where Carrie has performed her first amateur theatrical role in
Chicago…Carrie is transformed to the desired object for her lovers when they see that all the
audience desire her” (Nia 4). Carrie’s entire acting career is in fact representative of her
continued objectification; as Dreiser demonstrates, when on stage, what is Carrie but a figure to
be observed, evaluated, and judged by audiences based upon what they see? The recognition
afforded to Carrie is consistently the product of their attraction to her appearances: “Now,
because Carrie was pretty, the gentlemen who made up the advance illustrations of shows about
to appear for the Sunday papers selected Carrie’s photo along with others to illustrate the
announcement…Carrie was delighted “(Dreiser 325). The imitation and adoption of false
identities that accompanies the craft of acting further allows Carrie to distance herself from her
true personhood. Carrie hides behind a façade of a separate, objectified entity that cultivates her
inability to understand and articulate her desires. As Eby writes, “Each time she acts on stage,
Carrie not only re-enacts her self through making believe but incites others to desire. Her roles
elicit desire, but, because they are roles, can never satiate desire” (Eby 196). Thus, her
objectified occupation by its very nature perpetuates desire yet offers no appeasement. Carrie’s
identity as a consumer object is more explicitly insinuated in her image on a Broadway
billboards; her name the now literal marketing symbol for theatrical revenue. Her self now serves
as a mechanism to entice others to consume the product she represents—in essence, Carrie has
become a “sign” within this consumerist discourse. Dreiser communicates that even at the height
of Carrie’s success, consumerist society leaves her unfulfilled: “Carrie soon found that little
Giza 24
money brought her nothing. The world of wealth and distinction was quite as far away as ever.
She could feel that there was no warm, sympathetic friendship back of the easy merriment with
which many approached her” (Dreiser 324). Dreiser ultimately insinuates that consumerism
complicates rather than serves as a conduit for fulfillment and expression, writing that “Amid the
tinsel and shine of her sate walked Carrie, unhappy” (Dreiser 368). Thus, at the height of her
success with her potential for consumerism saturated, Carrie remains discontent. Though Carrie
fully participates in the discourse of consumerism, such merely serves as the mechanism for
delaying and obscuring Carrie’s confrontation, comprehension, and articulation of the root of her
continual desire.
In The House of Mirth, Lily Bart more consciously recognizes how consumerism
complicates her desires and actions. Unlike Carrie, Lily does not continually reconstruct herself,
nor does she wholly submit to consumerist ideology; however, she is equally affected by
consumerist culture’s distortion of the female identity and her actual desires. Lily and her leisure
class compatriots exemplify the atmosphere of wealth, luxury, and commodity fetish that defines
the Gilded Age, while demonstrating how such complicates issues of desire for women. As
Veblen observes, the upper-echelon “not only consumes of the stuff of life beyond the minimum
required for subsistence and physical efficiency, but his consumption also undergoes a
specialization as regards the quality of the goods consumed…the canon of reputability is at hand
and seizes upon such innovations as are...the consumption of these more excellent goods is an
evidence of wealth, it becomes honorific” (Veblen 74). Wharton’s Trenor, Dorset, and Van
Osburgh socialites exemplify Veblen’s observations of conspicuous consumption, as they
purchase material objects for the primary purpose of signifying social status; Lily’s inclusion
within this group by birth immerses her in a paradigm in which the accumulation of capital exists
Giza 25
as an ultimate objective, and defines social relations and identity. This perspective, as Wharton
makes evident, only amplifies Lily’s anxiety regarding her increasingly limited financial means
and threatens her identity as a member of the leisure class. As Lily candidly remarks to Selden,
“If I were shabby no one would have me: a woman is asked out as much for her clothes as for
herself. The clothes are the background, the frame, if you like…We are expected to be pretty and
well-dressed till we drop—and if we can’t keep it up alone, we have to go into a partnership”
(Wharton 12). Lily thus recognizes the reality of her objectified position in society and its
integral relationship with her identity and financial well-being. Though Lily’s descent may be
defined by her struggle to break free from this reality, Wharton illustrates that Lily continues to
place value upon commodities: “Lily’s heart gave an envious throb as she caught the refraction
of light from their surfaces—the milky gleam of perfectly matched pearls, the flash of rubies
relieved against contrasting velvet…the glow of the stones warmed Lily’s veins like wine”
(Wharton 90). Wharton clearly communicates the emotional attachment Lily maintains to
material objects, for they are representative of all that she believes can afford security and
happiness.
In The House of Mirth, consumerism also creates and perpetuates the perception that
women are commodities to be acquired by men. Like Carrie, Lily is described in relation to her
external appearance; as Ned van Aslytne states, “Deuced bold thing to show herself in that getup; but, gad, there isn’t a break in the lines anywhere, and I suppose she wanted us to know it!”
(Wharton 135). Yet, Wharton also reveals ways women can perpetuate this perception through
participation in the ideology. While Lily subconsciously rejects her role as an object of beauty,
(the notion that she is a delicate lily to be admired), she continues to partake in the activities of
her social class driven by consumerist ideology and places significant emphasis on attaining the
Giza 26
right type of clothing to represent her social status and in turn identity as a woman. Moddelbog
comments on Lily’s conflicting relationship with terms of her objectivity, writing that “Lily
relishes her existence in the public eye and has no desire to be sheltered and concealed from
view. Yet the terms of her self-exposure must be her own” (Moddelbog 345). Lily’s participation
in Mrs. Brys’ tableaux vivant performance is perhaps most indicative of her submission to
objectification and self-expression through materialism, as Wharton writes that “Lily, always
inspirited by the prospect of showing her beauty in public, and conscious tonight of all the added
enhancements of dress, the insistency of Trenor’s gaze merged itself in the general stream of
admiring looks of which she felt herself the centre” (Wharton 116). In this instance, Lily posits
herself as an object by exclusively utilizing her dress and feminine beauty as a form of
communication and expression, inviting observation and judgment. Even the virtuous Gerty
Farish, who orbits beyond the inner circle of the leisure class, partakes in consumerist discourse
through descriptions of women at the Brys’: “And this room is wonderfully becoming—
everyone looks so well! Did you ever see such jewels? Do look at Mrs. George Dorset’s pearls—
I suppose the smallest of them would pay the rent for our Girls’ Club for a year” (Wharton 132).
Lily and Gerty’s participation in this discourse through action and speech indicate that even
among women more cognizant of the limitations of consumerism or who refrain from active
consumption, the patriarchal perspectives of the discourse infiltrate their activity and
communication.
Though Lily in part enjoys the attention consumerism’s objectification can afford, she
discovers that objectification is often sexist and oppressive in nature. Lily’s confrontation with
Gus Trenor exemplifies this second form of objectification by specifically addressing Lily’s
commoditized role. Gus’s attempt to exact sexual favors from Lily as payment for his financial
Giza 27
advice demonstrates that even if Lily cannot repay Gus monetarily, as a woman, patriarchal
society expects she repay him with affection: “a man’s got his feelings—and you’ve played with
mine too long…dodging the rules of the game…if I’d had as much as a look from you”
(Wharton 147-48). Literary critic Joan Lidoff states that “when Gus Trenor lures Lily to his
deserted townhouse, his attempt to use his financial and physical power to coerce her sexually
makes explicit the real connections between money, power, and sex that Lily has purposefully
kept from her awareness” (Lidoff 531). This interaction is a cataclysmal moment in Lily’s own
“awakening,” for she fully recognizes consumerism’s subordination of her sex. Yet Wharton
demonstrates that this recognition remains on the precipice of articulation. Rather, Lily is guided
by an unfamiliar “voice” that allows her to exert temporary control over her confrontation with
Gus, but this voice fails to offer Lily any sense of clarity. Instead, after leaving the Trenor’s Lily
repeats that “I can’t think-I can’t think” and “seemed a stranger to herself, or rather there were
two selves in her, the one she had always known, and a new abhorrent being to which it found
itself chained” (Wharton 148). The presence of this “voice” alludes to Lily’s progressing ability
to articulate her desires, but one that remains intermittent throughout the novel.
A potential marriage with Simon Rosedale exemplifies Lily’s commoditized role as well.
While Lily repeatedly seems to confuse, or at least seems to blend, the language of love and
money, Rosedale is consistently transparent in his belief that marriage is an economic exchange
of wealth and status. Rosedale perceives Lily as an object of beauty and reputation that will
enhance his own social standing. Much like purchasing a fine suit, the purchase of Lily through
marriage will afford Rosedale the appreciated self-worth he seeks. Lily initially refuses
Rosedale’s pursuit, at the time maintaining her reputation and the potential to find a suitor more
to her liking. However, after her reputation has suffered, Lily revisits the possibility of a
Giza 28
marriage to Rosedale. Rosedale rejects her offer, and Lily becomes more cognizant of the reality
that her attractiveness as a fiancée is connected to her use value as an object of high social status:
“I understand you…a year ago I should have been of use to you, and now I should be an
encumbrance” (Wharton 256). While at times Lily becomes willing to extract love from its
economic contexts, at one point hoping that Rosedale might “marry her for love, now that he had
no other reason to marry her,” she remains confined by consumerism’s definition of the feminine
as object (Wharton 241).
Lily’s increasing contention with consumerism specifically lies in its required sacrifice of
her “self” in the most physical sense. Lily rejects the manner in which it has commoditized
marriage and relationships into an exchange of a woman’s body for financial and social security.
This sacrifice of body or sex for financial security perhaps too closely mirrors the construct of
prostitution of which Lily becomes increasingly cognizant of throughout the novel. Lily’s plans
to secure Percy Gryce for his fortune suggest that while Lily may prefer a marriage based on
love, she certainly isn’t opposed to the idea of benefitting from a lucrative one: “She knew that
she hated dinginess as much as her mother had hated it, and to her last breath she meant to fight
against it, dragging herself up again and again above its flood till she gained the bright pinnacles
of success” (Wharton 39). However, Lily continually sabotages this marital prospect among
others and her sharp reaction to Gus’s insinuations of sexual favors suggests that for Lily,
marriage in its consumerist context is most accurately repulsive because it compromises the
sanctity of her body.
Lily’s desires are thus complicated and obscured by a consumerist culture that deviates
and distort perceptions of herself and of others. At times, Lily achieves moments of clarity in
which she comprehends consumerism’s inability to fulfill her desires, yet the dominance of this
Giza 29
discourse offers her no means to fully articulate or act upon this comprehension. Wharton writes
that Lily “was weary of being swept passively along a current of pleasure and business in which
she had no share; weary of seeing other people pursue amusement and squander money, while
she felt herself no more account among them than an expensive toy in the hands of a spoiled
child” (Wharton 241). Lily is posited as both a participant and conscious resistor of
consumerism, yet Wharton emphasizes the tension that exists between these two roles and Lily’s
struggle to reconcile them, for society offers her no means of escape from the discourse she
begins to resist.
If Carrie Meeber commits fully to the discourse of consumerism and Lily Bart vacillates
in her participation, Edna Pontellier actively seeks to remove herself from the discourse entirely.
At the dawn of her awakening, Edna’s marriage is dominated by the discourse of consumerism,
and inadequately serves her evolving desires. Edna and her husband Leonce communicate almost
exclusively within the context of consumerism and its accompanying social expectations.
Leonce’s weekly shipment of money and candy to the island for Edna and the children in
exchange for her compliance encompass the extent of their gestures of affection. Despite
Leonce’s fulfillment of his financial duties to his wife by providing her a comfortable, uppermiddle class existence, and despite Edna’s immediate satisfaction upon receiving Leonce’s gifts,
Edna clearly remains unsatisfied in her marriage. Yet, because Leonce fulfills his societal
expectations as a provider, he is regarded by the women of Grand Isle as “the best husband in the
world,” and Edna finds that she cannot but admit that she “knew of none better” (Chopin 8).
However, in a marriage defined by consumption, Edna is positioned as an object whose value
rests her conformity to class expectations, which includes receiving guests each Tuesday,
wearing appropriate attire, and maintaining her fair complexion. While Lily and Simon may
Giza 30
offer a glimpse of a marriage based on exchange, Leonce and Edna provide a working model—
one that Edna seeks to abandon. As Chopin writes, “She would, through habit, have yielded to
his desire; not with any sense of submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but
unthinkingly, as we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life which has
been portioned out to us” (Chopin 31). The structure of the Pontellier marriage is based on
Leonce’s dominance as subject and Edna’s subservience as object. Their marriage adheres to
traditional expectations, yet lacks the kind of passion Edna experienced with her tragedian and
begins to experience with Robert. Ivy Schweitzer also identifies the subject-object dynamic of
the Pontellier marriage, writing that, “Edna's privileges derive, by way of marriage, from her
husband. They are a parroting/parody of self-possession and do not extend to the more crucial
disturbances of 'society' from which she might want to escape" (Schweitzer 166). Figuratively,
Leonce becomes the consumer of his wife’s obedient actions (reaping the benefits of her
respectable reputation) and Edna becomes the consumed (giving herself unto her husband and
his wishes). Of course, until her awakening, Edna never perceived her marriage in such a
fashion, for Leonce was always kind and generous, and “She liked money as well as most
women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction” (Chopin 7).
Edna’s rejection of her marriage and consumerism at large is reflected through her
progressive disrobing of clothing and relocation to her more modest pigeon house. Yet in doing
so, Edna ultimately still acts in accordance with consumerist ideology. Edna’s clothes, confining
and layered, are representative of consumerism’s indoctrination of the belief that female identity
is dependent upon appearance, maintained through dress and style that meet social expectation.
Throughout the novel, Edna becomes increasingly aware of consumerism’s inadequacy in
allowing her to construct an identity that accommodates her desires. In casting off the
Giza 31
materialistic component of her identity—her dress, the most apparent signifier of her status as a
female—Edna seeks to separate herself from a discourse she realizes offers her no adequate signs
and signifiers for expressions that remain unarticulated.1 Veblen notes that because wives
function as property, their dress is intended to communicate their “uselessness,” “lack of
productive labor,” and in turn the social and economic status of their husbands (Veblen 171).
Leonce’s disdain upon Edna’s divergence from her expected attire illustrates this relationship
between dress, property, and status: “It’s just such seeming trifles that we’ve got to take
seriously; such things count” (Chopin 71). Leonce closely guards his reputation as a respected
middle class businessman; his immediate explanation of “planned” construction to cover Edna’s
unexpected move from their Esplanade residence exemplifies his desire to maintain appearance.
If a wife’s dress is a symbol of her husband’s status, dress then is also a symbol of an absence of
female autonomy, for a wife is bound by her husband’s expectations and wishes. An
abandonment of the literal and figurative restrictions of dress would thus seem to grant
autonomy, yet for Edna, this is not so.
Edna’s attempts to break from society’s consumerist discourse by moving to the pigeon
house requires her active participation in consumerism, for Edna is forced to sell “a good many”
of her paintings to independently finance her move (Chopin 80). As Ivy Schweitzer notes, “By
becoming a producer, rather than remaining a re-producer, Edna enters more deeply into the
system of exchange in which she considered “goods” to be acquired and possessed” (Chopin
172). Edna’s participation in gambling at the racetracks with Arobin further indicates her
emersion in the consumerism; though Edna departs from the discourse of consumerism by
Critic Carolyn Matthews identifies a relationship between self-ownership and the abandonment of Edna’s
garments, writing that, “Kate Chopin mined this vein of thought when she used dress to signal meanings related to
female sovereignty, but she used social-class coding to insure that Edna's position not just as wife but as middleclass wife comes under scrutiny” (Matthews 1).
1
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abandoning her commoditized identity as a wife, she simultaneously creates a zero sum score by
selling her paintings and gambling (activities very much defined by consumerism). Edna also
reflects participation in consumerist discourse at the racetrack, where “she was talking like her
father,” and “sat between her two companions as one having authority to speak” (Chopin 74).
The dinner party Edna hosts on the eve of her move to the pigeon house further exemplifies her
inconsistencies between consumerist beliefs and actions. While Edna suggests her move is
motivated by a desire for simplicity and independence, absent of luxury and servants, she
celebrates this decision in a highly luxurious and materialistic fashion. As she tells Arobin, “Oh
it will be very fine-all my best of everything-crystal, silver, and gold. Sevres, flowers, music, and
champagne to swim in” (Chopin 85). Here too, Edna’s relationship with clothing demonstrates a
flux in consistency, as she dons a “satin gown spread in rich folds” with a “golden shimmer”
(Chopin 89).
Edna’s attempts to extract herself from consumerism are ultimately problematized by her
complete disrobement on the beach of Grand Isle in Chopin’s concluding scene. If Edna achieves
full separation from this discourse and thus becomes fully cognizant of her desires, why, then,
does she choose suicide? Chopin seems to allude that Edna is in fact never extracted from the
discourse of consumerism because it permeates every aspect of her existence; even naked and
independent, Edna exists in a consumerist society that will exert its values and expectations upon
her. Edna’s act of suicide implies that she recognizes that her desires can never be full
conceptualized and acted upon. Edna thus maintains a paradoxical relationship with
consumerism; though she seeks to exist beyond its confines, its discourse continues to pervade
her thought and action, suggesting that Edna lacks any possibility of escape.
Giza 33
Consumerism functions as the exclusive discourse of each heroine and complicates her
ability to comprehend and articulate her subject desires. Consumerism’s infiltration of all aspects
of society provides women a distorted understanding of the new identities they attempt to
construct. The patriarchal structure of consumerism further limits woman’s self-perception as an
object to be consumed, regardless of her cognizance (like that attained by Edna and Lily) of its
limitations. Not only does consumerism perceive women as commodities, it fosters the belief
that the possession of material objects determines the value of an individual, and falsely names
consumption as the appeaser (rather than the enabler) of desire. While some scholars like Eby
believe that consumerism itself is the cause of perpetual desire, asserting that “comparison and
emulation [make] satiation impossible,” consumerism actually enables and manifests desire, as
desire is generated by the absence of an adequate language divorced from the structures of
patriarchy (Eby 196). The language of consumerism is merely the structure that inhibits the
articulation of woman’s more deeply-rooted desires.
If consumerism problematizes and perpetuates each heroine’s desires, the absence of an
alternative discourse seals their fates. Drieser, Wharton, and Chopin’s motif of the unspoken
demonstrates the relationship between the absence of language and the complexity of each
heroine’s inability to resolve her perpetual desires. The only discourse available to each heroine
is that of consumerism, and while this discourse provides her the ability to achieve financial and
social success, it hinders the fulfillment of her New Woman desires. Textual analysis reveals that
each heroine’s inability to fully express and act upon these desires and ending lacking viable
alternatives, and that an accepted, adequate language that names these new limits of female
autonomy does not exists. This lack becomes the source of each heroine’s tragic fate.
Giza 34
Scholarship has well-established that the English language is inherently paternal. Jacques
Lacan provides a foundation for this “language as masculine” theory, stating that children are
born into a paternalistic Symbolic Order that operates within the patriarchal social construct of
the ‘Law of the Father” (Lacan 41). French scholars like Helene Cixous expanded upon Lacan’s
work by further arguing that because language is rooted in the masculine Symbolic Order, it
consequently limits the feminine; Cixous suggests that “language is the endemic to the repressive
structures of thinking and narration to organize our lives” (Sellers XXIX). Thus, the paternal
nature of language is significant because it shapes reality. As Dale Spender notes, “Words help
to structure the world we live in, and words have helped to structure a paternalistic world in
which women are assigned a subordinate position” (Spender 31). English not only reveals the
sexism present in society, but perpetuates sexism by defining words in relation to men and from
a male point of view.2 An unmarried woman like Lily can be negatively stigmatized as an “old
maid,” while an unmarried man of similar age like Selden can be neutrally titled a “bachelor”
with the freedom to choose at what age to marry. The connotation makes all the difference.
Efforts to discuss this female subordination in language and initiate change began only in
the mid-twentieth century, and even today “writers [still] talk of a new language to replace our
father tongue” (McConnell-Ginet 3). While “New Women” sought to adopt new roles during the
Gilded Age), language remained patriarchal and absent of any suitable signifiers to assign
accurate meaning to a woman’s desire for autonomy. As Luce Irigaray states, “the feminine can
try to speak for itself through a new language but cannot describe itself from the outside or in
formal terms, except by identifying itself with the masculine” (Irigaray 65). Robin Lakoff offers
2
Spender notes that when a woman becomes a surgeon or lawyer she does not simply adopt these normative titles as
would a man, rather, she is defined as a “female surgeon” or a “female lawyer” (Spender 20). Society places
emphasis on maintaining these distinctions between a male surgeon and a female surgeon by assigning a modifier to
the female to indicate her non-normative role, reflecting the belief in women’s difference or inferiority to man.
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additional insight into the complexities of women’s struggle for adequate language, noting that
the accepted and practiced female dialect, comprised of “hedges” and “tag questions” (“It’s
going to rain today, right?”), perpetuates sexism and the reality that “women are systematically
denied access to power, on the grounds that they are not capable of holding it as demonstrated by
their linguistic behavior” (Hendricks 4). Thus, women like Carrie, Lily, and Edna face inherent
linguistic disadvantages that make the challenge of expressing a desire that diverges from the
social normative all the more difficult.
Carrie, Lily, and Edna’s varying statuses, in conjunction with ceaseless desires
problematized by consumerism, indicate that the shared underlying variable of language explains
why despite naturalist differences outcomes are similar. If a language existed in which these
heroines could articulate their desires, one in which it was acceptable to state that one lacked
maternal interests or wished to marry for love rather than money (or not at all), it seems that
Carrie, Lily, and Edna could comprehend, name, and act upon their desires. Instead, each heroine
exists in varying states of confusion, dependence, and frustration.
In Sister Carrie, the causal relationship between the absence of adequate language and
Carrie’s perpetual desire emerges through presence of the unspoken, its subtlety emphasizing
Carrie’s own obliviousness to her verbal limitations. Carrie has often been described by critics as
a generic and unknowable character, for her personality and intimate feelings are veiled from the
reader. Kenneth Lynn states that, “The characters in Sister Carrie are all actors; their
personalities are not expressions of themselves, but the roles they are playing” (Lynn 502). Even
as the novel ends and Dreiser offers insight into Carrie’s emotive state, writing that she “had
learned that in this world, as in her present state, was not happiness,” it feels as though we never
meet the authentic, genuine Carrie, but merely a prototype of a working-class girl meant to
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illustrate Dreiser’s message about consumerism and society. The key to this lack of intimacy
between reader and character rests in the absence of meaningful dialogue. Rarely does Carrie
speak directly, and when she does, it is often brief and unrelated to her inner thoughts and
feelings. The repetition of phrases similar to “Carrie made no reply” and “Carrie could not have
told herself,” reflects a disjunction between feeling and conceptualization, and articulation of
these unnamed desires (Dreiser 97). In one instance, Dreiser writes that “She could not have
framed thoughts which would have expressed his defect or made clear the difference between
them, but she felt” (Dreiser 78). Carrie feels, but cannot understand or speak. Carrie silently
drifts from one job prospect to the next, living amongst the unsettling quiet of her sister and
brother-in-law’s home. While Carrie masters her comprehension and articulation of surface,
material desires, she oppresses the authentic thoughts and feelings that have the greatest need for
articulation. Critic Julian Markels argues that “Carrie does attain her identity through such a
seemingly aimless process. She arrives in Chicago a mere undifferentiated blob of feelings, just
barely articulate. But her passage through the dialectic of desire and frustration does in fact
enlarge her scope and refine her powers of discrimination” (Markels 478). While Carrie’s
articulation and intelligence of her environment become sharpened and enlarged by the end of
the novel—no longer the timid girl in search of a job but an independent Broadway star— such
only suggests that Carrie achieves success as a cog in the machine of consumerism, rather than a
New Woman who has yet to address and understand the causes of her perpetual desire and
unhappiness.
Even Carrie’s relationships with Hurstwood and Drouet are characterized by the
unspoken and unusual brevity of conversation, with meaning arising more from glances and
appearance (signifiers of wealth and opportunity) and discussion focusing more on finances than
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common interests, feelings, and beliefs. Critic Jin Rong explores these silences, writing that
“Carrie’s relationship with Hurstwood develops on a non-verbal level, not on a verbal level,”
citing an excerpt from the novel in which “at the first opportunity to for them to express their
feelings openly, Carrie hesitates while Hurstwood suggests silence”: “We are good friends,
aren’t we?/ ‘Yes,’ she answered/ ‘Not a word, then, until I see you again’” (Rong 70).
Hurstwood’s request for silence limits Carrie’s opportunity for meaningful expression, an
opportunity limited even during her stay at Minnie and Hanson’s, where Carrie’s verbal
contributions are relatively unwanted and silence permeates family dinners. Rong further argues
that “part of the reason for her failure to fulfill her ideal lies in the ability of the city to deceive
her by exhibiting the outward products of success and happiness which Carrie later realizes are
empty” ( Rong 72). Rong is accurate in his conjecture; however, to take his observations further,
Carrie’s vulnerability for such deception is the product of the silence and lack of articulation that
inhibits her cognizance and comprehension. Immersed in a discourse that touts blind adherence
to consumerist ideology and knowing no other discourse in which to process thought, Carrie’s
desires have no choice but to be rooted in a deceptive social system that fails to offer her a true
sense of happiness. Men like Drouet teach Carrie a language in which articulation is learned
through consumerism, which supplies products for Carrie to express herself onto and articulation
is often manifested as others speaking for Carrie, be it by clothing, scripts, or men. Additionally,
like Hurstwood, Drouet too acts as a patriarchal force that perhaps unintentionally silences
Carrie’s attempts at articulation; not only is he the most direct influence on her introduction to
the discourse of consumerism, but his air of authority and interjections obstruct her attempts
(though relatively infrequent) to engage in articulation. Ellen Moers notes a passage in Chapter
VI in which Drouet unexpectedly runs into Carrie on the street and insists on dinner, and though
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he states “I want to talk to you,” Drouet in fact does most of the talking and is positioned as an
authority figure to which Carrie “assent[s] gladly, though with the slightest air of holding back”
(Dreiser 44). As Moers states, “In this passage, as throughout the novel, Carrie says almost
nothing. Her short, primer sentences carry flat twang without Dreiser’s insisting on it” (Moers
484). Furthermore, Dreiser writes that “There was something delicate and lonely in her voice,”
but Drouet “could not hear it” (Dreiser78). Not only does language fail to provide Carrie
adequate means of expression divorced of patriarchal consumerism, but the presence of men like
Drouet often repress Carrie’s attempts at authentic articulation. Yet, Carrie is not literally
inarticulate by the end of the novel; in fact, she is verbose in many instances, be it discussing the
distressing state of financial affairs with Hurstwood, spending evenings with friends, or reciting
lines. Yet, it is what is not said that bears significance. What does Carrie think of motherhood?
Marriage? Her identity as a wife and a single woman? Her role as an object in a consumerist
society? Is she conscious of these questions? Who is Carrie Meeber beyond her assigned identity
as a consuming object? There is much left to wonder about “Carrie the Desiring Subject,”
opposed to “Carrie the Object,” projecting onto other objects as an actress, consumer, mistress,
or wife. Dreiser exemplifies Carrie’s articulation as object and omission of authentic inquiry in
many instances, writing that “Carrie pondered the situation as consistently as Hurstwood, once
she got the facts adjusted in her mind. It took several days for her to fully realize that the
approach of the dissolution of her husband’s business meant commonplace struggle and
privation…Everything about poverty was terrible!” (Dreiser 236) Carrie’s thoughts focus on
concerns that are the product of consumerist indoctrination; she remains object (wife) desiring
object (wealth). The loss of Hurstwood’s job is only interpreted as a source of poverty and
concern for his emotional well-being or the state of their marriage is not considered.
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Ironically, Carrie masters the art of acting, which requires extensive communication and
expression. Whereas the unspoken permeates her private life, Carrie wholly engages in modes of
expression on stage, even noting the incompetence of other actresses who fail to give life to their
performances: “The lack of feeling in the thing was ridiculous. Carrie did not get it at all. She
[Mrs. Morgan] seemed to be talking in her sleep” (Dreiser 126). Carrie’s ability to shine on stage
and master the art of articulation in character serves as yet another poignant example of Carrie’s
ability to transform and mimic, rather than naturally “exist.” For Carrie, expression is best
enacted in a secondary form in which external objects substitute authentic representation. The
clothes Carrie wears, the names she adopts, and characters she portrays are all disingenuous
forms of expression that mask and suffocate Carrie’s authentic voice. In fact, the Carrie that
develops is nearly entirely the product of imitation, for Carrie learns to imitate others in dress,
manner, speech, values, and beliefs: “Carrie walked with an air equal to Mrs. Vance…she had
learned much about laces and those little neck-pieces which add so much to a woman’s
appearance” (Dreiser 103). Acting allows Carrie to mimic, rather than create; to create would be
to reach for words that do not exist and face realities that are better off unrealized. Though acting
appears to demonstrate Carrie’s ability to articulate and express, it is merely a continued exercise
in Drouet and society’s lesson that other men and other things should speak for Carrie.
Though immersed in the discourse in consumerism, Carrie does attempt to engage in
authentic articulation at times. The vague, incomplete nature of these attempts, however, reveals
that Carrie is unable to assign language to her feelings: “They listened for a few moments in
silence…’I don’t know what it is about music,’ she started to say, moved by the inexplicable
longings which surged within her; ‘but it always makes me feel as if I wanted something—I—
‘Yes,’ he replied; I know how you feel’” (Dreiser 340). Carrie’s speech becomes difficult and
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halting when she becomes a desiring subject. These authentic desires, rooted not in “need” but
purely in deep-rooted desire (like music), often elicit physical responses that have no explication
in code. Carrie’s interactions with Ames, a man who functions in a similar manner as Selden
and Robert do for Lily and Edna in his ability to speak of things which resonate with Carrie and
pique her romantic interest, demonstrate an interest in that which patriarchal, consumerist society
does not afford her. As Dreiser writes, “He mentioned things in the play which she most
approved of—things which swayed her deeply,” yet “she did not know why she felt this way”
(Dreiser 238). Carrie’s attraction towards Ames and her connection to his ideas exemplify
Carrie’s capacity for desires beyond the material realm, yet her inability to verbally respond to
these desires demonstrates her struggle to become the subject of her own desires.
Carrie’s constant movement and action, rather than thought and speech, becomes her
most meaningful attempt at articulation. For Carrie, movement itself becomes a language. Carrie
moves from Chicago, to Toronto, to New York, and occupies various apartments, jobs, and men
in between. This displaced expression only accelerates her simultaneous attainment of success
and unhappiness and diverts opportunities for meaningful articulation.3 Carrie’s movement
reflects Carrie’s tendency to abandon, rather than address/articulate, the circumstance which
compels her to continually desire. Such movement strongly suggests an inability to problemsolve, which the presence of the motif of the unspoken alludes is perpetuated by a lack of
articulation and comprehension of these problems, an absence the product of a language rooted
in the paternal. Carrie’s mobile identity is further expressed in her seemingly ambivalent attitude
towards Lacan’s “Law of the Father,” exemplified through the ease with which she changes
This lack of critical thought and comprehension makes possible statements such as “She wanted power, she wanted
position, but she was confused as to what those things might be,” (Dreiser 102). Thus, even though it may appear
that Carrie maintains a stable identity as a successful actress by the end of the novel, there exists a deeper
component of her identity that remains in constant flux and mutation, an identity of Carrie extraneous of her role as
an object that is never articulated.
3
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surnames. Her given name Meeber (quite literally, a “Name of the Father”) is exchanged
multiple times throughout the novel, each exchange a social indication of a new identity. While
such disinterest in surname may suggest a dismissal of patriarchal expectations (that a wife will
adopt the surname of her husband), the ambivalence with which she regards her surname is in
fact further evidence of her submission to the patriarchal structures of society, for she is willing
to be identified as anyone’s property, and because consumerism inhibits identification as subject,
these transitions as object are easily accepted. Carrie Meeber/Madenda/Wheeler is merely a
consumer and consumed of society, an object desiring other objects, and a construction of others’
perceptions and narratives. Carrie becomes the “little peach” of Drouet and Hurstwood’s desires,
but her individual identity, divorced from her status as object, remains buried beneath constructs
of mobility and artificial signifiers.
There thus exists a paradoxical relationship between language, movement, and the body
in Sister Carrie. While Carrie is incredibly physically mobile throughout the novel, her level of
authentic articulation remains noticeably arrested and paralyzed. Carrie is introduced as wholly
inarticulate, yet makes no progress in her ability to authentically articulate by the end of the
novel, in spite of the great span of time, location, and experiences that have passed. In fact,
Carrie arguably digresses; the “secret voice” that lingers in Carrie’s conscience at the beginning
of the novel, the one that comes “infrequently—when something else did not interfere” that
represents her “past environment, habit, convention,” would “reassert itself, more feebly and
more feebly,” as the narrative progresses (Dreiser 71). Dreiser’s depiction of Carrie as an
“anchorless, storm-beaten little craft that could do absolutely nothing but drift,” though in
naturalist language, actually reveal that Carrie’s desires, rather than other things, act upon her.
Her ceaseless and cyclical desires dictate her patterns of movement, action, and fate. (Dreiser
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167). By locating desire in movement, Carrie can express, but these expressions are never
understood.
As Carrie continuously rocks at the end of the novel, what minimal ability she maintained
upon her arrival in Chicago to act as subject is sufficiently extinguished. Carrie’s continuous
rocking becomes an expression of her ceaseless desires through movement, and she becomes an
object of her desires: “disillusioned, she was still waiting for that halcyon day when she should
be led forth among dreams become real…It was forever to be the pursuit of that radiance of
delight which tints the distant hilltops of the world” (Dreiser 369). Given the pervasiveness of
consumerism in Sister Carrie, it seems appropriate that desire essentially consumes Carrie
herself. Carrie’s animalistic drive to fulfill these desires, yet repeated failure to do so, ultimately
places Carrie at the mercy of her own yearning. Dreiser concludes by stating that Carrie will
never find happiness, indicating the impossibility of an alternate fate. This impossibility suggests
that an accessible resolution does not exist. As an adequate, feminine language has yet to
emerge, such logically functions as this absent mechanism necessary for alternate fate.
The necessity of language and its representation through movement emerges in the House
of Mirth as well. However, while Carrie embodies movement in excess, swept along in the fast
waters of the social current, Lily resists the pull of this current, rejecting upward mobility
dependent on her body as object. Even the novels’ signature images of Carrie and Lily, endlessly
rocking and fixedly posed as a tableaux, respectively, capture each heroine’s contrasting
relationship to movement. Yet despite this contrast, in both novels the imagery of movement
parallels the formless, endless, qualities of Lily and Carrie’s inarticulate desires. While Carrie
never consciously seeks a position as desiring subject, Lily demonstrates a greater awareness of
desires that are not satisfied in her role as an object desiring other objects. Despite this
Giza 43
cognizance, the silences that permeate the consciousness of Lily echo Carrie’s own silences and
inability to comprehend and articulate her individual identity and cyclical desires, for she is
equally challenged by the task of assigning words to her feelings, and envisioning a future for
herself beyond the confines of patriarchal social expectation.
Descriptions of Lily’s internal consciousness indicate uncertainty and obstruction of
articulation. Wharton writes that Lily often “could not herself have explained” and “hardly
knew what she had been seeking, or why the failure to find it had so blotted the light from her
sky: she was only aware of a vague sense of failure, of an inner isolation deeper than the
loneliness about her” (Wharton 61). Like Carrie, Lily becomes inarticulate only when she
assumes the role of a desiring subject rather than an object desiring other objects. Lily
demonstrates verbosity and a mastery of words in many instances throughout the novel, yet the
language she uses inherently posits her as an object within a patriarchal context. Lily remains an
object largely defined by others, an “exotic flower” seeking a wealthy cultivator who could
continue to define her identity in marriage. As Elaine Showalter astutely remarks, “In one sense,
Lily’s search for a suitable husband is an effort to be ‘spoken for,’ to be suitably articulated and
defined in the social arena” (Showalter 136). It is when Lily attempts to remove herself from
this identity and explore her own desires that articulation become difficult; as Lily states, “I’m
not frightened, that’s not the word…I can’t bear to see myself in my own thoughts…but I can’t
explain it to you” (Wharton 164). The reality that Lily is no longer a desired object, fallen from
the graces of her social circle, confronts Lily with her self as subject; however, this self
maintains foreign and unnamable desires that problematize Lily’s ability to conceptualize her
future.
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Lily’s attempts at authentic articulation arise from her conversations with Selden as well,
a man who serves not only as a confidante and source of romance, but as an unusual male figure
who does not exclusively place Lily in the role of object, nor is dominating or repressive like
Carrie and Drouet/Hurstwood’s. This allows Lily to share more intimate details about her
thoughts and feelings, even admitting that, “the other women—my best friends—well, they use
me or abuse me; but they don’t care a straw what happens to me. I’ve been about too long—
people are getting tired of me; they are beginning to say I ought to marry” (Wharton 9). Thus,
Lily recognizes desires that deviate from social expectation, but a specific alternative to
fulfilling these desires remains elusive. Selden gives Lily a glimpse of the type of language that
resonates with these desires, through thoughts of freedom from “money, from poverty, from
ease and anxiety, from all the material accidents,” thoughts that are distanced from the discourse
of consumerism. Even so, as Lily acknowledges, “There was no one, I mean, to tell me about
the republic of the spirit…I should never have found my way there if you hadn’t told me”
(Wharton 68). Thus, Lily may forge connections between her feelings and Selden’s words, but
it is still Selden (the man) who articulates. Furthermore, while Selden’s “Republic of the Spirit”
offers Lily fresh perspectives of what it means to be a desiring subject, she is never able to
“regain her freedom” from the social cage into which she was born: “How alluring the world
outside the cage appeared to Lily, as she heard its door clang on her! In reality, she knew, the
door never clanged: it always stood open; but most of the captives were like flies in a bottle, and
having once flown in, could never regain their freedom” (Wharton 55).
Not only does The House of Mirth echo Sister Carrie’s motif of the unspoken, the
implementation of artifice and imitation appears in both texts as well. The tendency to imitate
and subvert authentic expression is both evidence and a perpetuator of Lily’s inability to
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comprehend her desires. Lily far more concerned with appearance and reputation as a
constructor of identity than she is with articulating her own narrative. Lily often lets others
speak for her and of her, shaping her reputation in a manner over which she exerts no control.
Yet as Wharton writes, in Lily’s circle, concern for reputation is rightly founded: “It was
horrible of a young girl to let herself be talked about; however unfounded the charges against
her, she must be to blame for their having been made” (Wharton 127). The Dorset fiasco
exemplifies this lack of subjectivity, for when Gerty asks Lily to tell her side of the story, Lily
replies, “My story? I don’t believe I know it myself” (Wharton 226). However, as Wharton
illustrates, even when Lily does attempt such articulation, it remains vague and disjunctive,
never actually addressing her feelings in adequate terms. Even her attempts to communicate the
truth to Selden about her involvement with Trenor, a truth unpleasant, unfamiliar, and a
rejection of her status as object, are veiled. As Showalter notes, “she can only hint, can only
speak in parables he is totally unable to comprehend” (Showalter 136). The choice of
articulation or reflective thought over silence often proves difficult for Lily, for “She had never
learned to live with her own thoughts, and to be confronted with them through such hours of
lucid misery made the confused wretchedness of her previous vigil seem bearable” (Wharton
178). It is instead much easier and instinctive for Lily to lest others project for her and relent to
the “empty noises of her life” (Wharton 241). This emphasis on outsiders’ construction of Lily’s
identity causes continual focus on the ways in which she can satisfy others rather than
reflectively shaping an identity for herself through her own words as a desiring subject. In fact,
like Carrie, the “real Lily Bart,” is largely concealed from the reader, and Wharton suggests that
Lily doesn’t even know herself, she is merely a construction of others’ narratives and not the
owner of her own story (again, never a subject, always an object).
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Lily’s connection with Nettie Struther’s child demonstrate that Lily’s subject-desires are
nonverbal and elicit physical responses. As Nettie offers her condolences to Lily, “Lily, instead
of answering, rose with a smile and held out her arms; and the mother, understanding the
gesture, laid her child in them” (Wharton 315). Throughout the entire episode Lily remains
nonverbal, instead navigating her emotions in the physical, which reinforces the notion that
these subject-desires, rather than superficial object-needs, stir feelings that society has yet to
assign language to. Yet this subject-desire for companionship while holding Nettie’s baby is not
enough to convince Lily that motherhood would satisfy her perpetual desire, refuting the
biologically naturalist interpretation of this scene. Wharton’s assertion that “the little episode
had done her good,” only serves to compound the feelings of physical detachment and
loneliness Lily experiences upon returning to her room, where “the atmosphere of her old life
enveloped her” (Wharton 317). In fact, while the child elicits responses for which Lily lacks
words to name, the child is described as a “burden” that penetrates her “with a strange sense of
weakness, as though the child entered her and became a part of herself” (Wharton 316). Lily
may desire physical companionship that does not require her position as object, but the
attainment of such remains inconceivable until it is too late.
The absence of language becomes most problematic in Wharton’s final scene, in which
Selden presides over the now-deceased Lily, and the word which was never spoken is suddenly
“made apparent”: “and in the silence there passed between them the word with made it all clear”
(Wharton 329). Selden and Lily’s friendship, on the precipice of romance throughout the novel,
is marked by cyclical periods of attraction and tumult, with neither fully expressing their true
feelings for one another, moments “had been fated to pass from them before they could seize it”
(Wharton 329). Wharton saturates their interactions with the unspoken, writing that “an
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indwelling voice in each called to the other across unsounded depths of feeling,” “she had made
no reply” and “the power of expression failed her suddenly,” “a silence which he dared not
break” (Wharton 67-310).4 In these instances, Lily desires as a subject and substitutes silence
for which cannot be said by either party, words and possibilities that ignite subject-desires she
feels can never be fulfilled: “Ah, love me, love me—but don’t tell me so!”(Wharton 138). With
Selden Lily desires most strongly as a subject (wanting his love, rather than needing it for
financial security), and like Carrie, these desires become challenging to articulate because they
are unknown and unnamable. While Lily and Selden’s final “word” remains unknown, its
communication in Lily’s post mortem silence signifies Lily’s inability in life to give voice to
language that inspires this “moment of love” (Wharton 329). The reality that Lily is a subject
with persisting desires that cannot be named or more importantly fulfilled, plagues her
conscience so intensely that by the end of the novel Lily struggles to be left alone with her
thoughts: “she had not imagined that such a multiplication of wakefulness was possible: her
whole past was reenacting itself at a hundred different points of consciousness” (Wharton 322).
Lily lacks the language to envision for herself what it would tangibly mean to never marry (or
to marry for love), to lose her social status and financial security, but to still retain a sense of
autonomy and identity.5 Lily’s continued participation in consumerism and her refusal to marry
Selden for love and abandon the idea of a marriage for wealth—to fully remove herself from the
These silences contribute to the notion that Lily’s desire for something beyond social convention and
consumerism, for something that reconciles marriage as more than financial security, for someone like Selden, is
complicated by the inability to simply voice these wants in an adequate manner. Yet Wharton clearly indicates
Lily’s interest in Selden, regardless in spite of her lack of verbal confirmation: “She read too, in his answering gaze
the delicious confirmation of her triumph, and for the moment it seemed to her that it was for him only she cared to
be beautiful” (Wharton 137).
5
Though Lily strives to resist the currents of a society that speaks for her, she still “tried to repeat the word” that
would “make everything life clear” between herself and Selden, but it “lingered vague and luminous on the far edge
of thought” (Wharton 323).
4
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position of object—suggests that she fails to envision any viable alternative future. Instead, Lily
commits to a final silence of rest.
Like Lily, Edna’s inexplicable longings lead to death. Edna Pontellier’s awakened sense
of self finds limited modes of expression in a society that fails to offer her the words to
articulate her newly realized desires. Chopin establishes intentional textual structures to
demonstrate the ways in which limited language complicates Edna’s ability to express and
envision for herself a life as subject rather than object. The incomprehensible dialogue of a
parrot who speaks in a language in which “nobody understood,” introduces readers to the motif
of the unspoken, paralleled with Edna herself throughout the novel as both Edna and the parrot
cannot articulate their thoughts and desires in a discourse understood by others (Chopin 1). The
parrot’s “babble,” a conglomeration of French, Spanish, and Creole, translates to “Go away! Go
away! For heaven’s sake!” a phrase that parallels Edna’s own efforts to distance herself from
her social identity and seek individual autonomy. Chopin’s textual structures that emphasize
this motif of the unspoken continue throughout the novel, subtly drawing attention to the
silences and arrested articulation that haunt Edna and problematize the fulfillment of her
desires. Even at the conclusion of the novel when Edna returns to Grand Isle, it is a woman
named Philomel who prepares lunch, a woman whose name scholar Marion Muirhead identifies
as yet another component of the Wharton’s theme of language: “The myth of Philomel is one of
articulation and artistry; this reference resonates with the opening description of the trained
parrot with its suggestion of the theme of articulation” (Muirhead 52). Thus, Wharton seems to
direct readers to the inadequacy of Edna’s communication, which leads to the tragic nature of
her fate.
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Edna becomes more aware of the forces that limit and problematize her desires. Yet, like
Lily this heightened awareness does not manifest in an authentic articulation of her desires.
Rather, Edna’s speech often remains paralyzed. Wharton writes that Edna often “could not have
told why she was crying,” facing “an indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in
some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with vague anguish” (Chopin
6). Though Edna is flooded with feeling and emotion, the naming and understanding of these
sensations fail to take form in an authentic, cohesive discourse, and Edna remains unable to
“comprehend half of them,” existing in a state of “not knowing why,” she feels the way she
does (Chopin 29-58). At times Edna’s language nears a proximal feminine discourse, evidenced
in phrases like, “She was flushed and intoxicated with the sound of her own voice and the
unaccustomed taste of candor. It muddled her like wine, or like first breath of freedom” (Chopin
19). Edna’s breath of freedom is derived from her narrations of her childhood, former love
interests, and her relationships to her children. These memories are distanced from the
patriarchal discourse of consumerism and associated with more organic, feminine emotions
beneath the Symbolic Order. By narrating as a subject in this instance, Edna attains the power of
freedom, which communicates the necessity of verbal expression in the establishing autonomy.
Yet, the nature of Edna’s narration remains vague and incomplete, and Chopin writes that Edna
did even not reveal the entirety of these thoughts to Madame Ratignolle. In other instances
language fails Edna in its inability to wholly express her feelings: “In a sweeping passion she
seized a glass vase from the table and flung it upon the tiles of the hearth. She wanted to destroy
something. The crash and clatter were what she wanted to hear” (Chopin 52). Edna seeks
displaced articulation through the crash and clatter of a vase in a moment of frustration rooted in
her inability to translate her feelings into words powerful enough to carry her meaning.
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Edna’s limited language is further evidenced and perpetuated through the lack of depth in
her communications with her peers. When Edna attempts to express subject-desires with Adele,
she is often misunderstood, for Adele fails to relate to the nature and depth of Edna’s longing.
Adele seeks no alternate forms of expression as she embraces her socially-constructed roles as
mother, wife, and object of desire, and views Edna’s new attitudes and behaviors irresponsible.
Chopin writes that “the two women did not appear to understand each other or to be talking the
same language” (Chopin 47). Leonce inhibits opportunities for Edna to communicate as a
subject, as she is perpetually demoted as object rather than equal subject, while Edna “can only
half comprehend” Mademoiselle Reisz, a kindred spirit who still seems to Edna “wonderfully
sane,” she remains a woman still immersed in insufficient language, and can only communicate
her shared desires with Edna in rather vague metaphors: “She put her arms around me and felt
my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said. ‘The bird that would soar above
the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the
weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth” (Chopin 79). Interestingly, Robert
Lebrun acts as mechanism that offers Edna the closest thing to authentic articulation, serving
much as Selden does to Lily. As Patricia Yaeger observes, “What Robert Lebrun offers Edna is
a continuing story, a mode of discourse which may be chimerical, but unlike Edna’s talk with
her husband is also potentially communal” (Yaeger 201). Robert views Edna as an equal, much
as Selden views Lily, and in doing so, Robert offers Edna an arena in which to articulate her
thoughts, but fails to give her the right words for expression. Rather, Robert often entertains
Edna’s attempts at authentic articulation in a flirtatious, rather than serious manner, reflecting
his lack of cognition to the authenticity of her thoughts. Edna states that, “I wonder if any night
on earth will ever again be like this one. It is like a night in a dream…There must be spirits
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abroad tonight/ ‘There are,’ whispered Robert… ‘a spirit that has haunted these shores for ages
rises up from the Gulf…tonight he found Mrs. Pontellier. Perhaps he will never wholly release
her from the spell” (Chopin 29). Robert’s attempt at amusement too closely mirrors Edna’s
legitimate fear of never being “wholly released” from the “spell” of her awakened desires, yet
Robert remains incognizant of the profundity of his jest. This communicative distance between
Edna and others creates a state of isolation, and to be perpetually misunderstood or not
understood at all, is to lose a sense of identity and belonging.
Edna’s communicative distance and inability to articulate is also evidenced in her
exchange with Dr. Mandelet after Adele’s childbirth, just before her return to Grand Isle. While
speaking with Dr. Mandelet, Edna seems to recognize the limitation of her own voice as she
becomes a figurative “parrot” talking to a “patriarch” who, though he claims he “would
understand,” would in fact likely be unable to wholly understand the nature of her words. Edna
tells Dr. Mandelet “In some way I don’t feel moved to speak of the things that trouble me,” and
concludes in with a frenetic, “Oh! I don’t know what I’m saying Doctor” (Chopin 105). The
disjointed dialogue interspersed between these statements of confusion, evident in phrases like,
“That is wanting a good deal, of course, when you have to trample upon the lives, the prejudices
of others—but no matter—still, I shouldn’t want to trample upon the little lives,” not only
demonstrates Edna’s lack of coherent explication, but demonstrates her continued struggle to
rationalize her desires and attempts to act upon them (Chopin 105).
Edna’s deep connection with purely nonverbal, unessential desires that evoke physical
responses lacking explication in codes also indicates the absence of adequate language. The fact
that Edna’s love for music and painting are pursuits in which she entertains desires as a subject
rather than as an object desiring other objects echoes the inarticulate nature of her desires and
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the need to move beyond the realm of consumerism. Chopin writes that as Mademoiselle Reisz
plays the piano, Edna’s imagination is not directed to “material pictures,” but rather the
“passions themselves were within her soul, swaying it, lashing it, as the waves daily beat upon
her splendid body. She trembled, she was choking, and the tears blinded her;” when
Mademoiselle Reisz asks Edna’s opinion of her performance, “The young woman was unable to
answer” (Chopin 26). Edna thus experiences a highly emotive and physical reaction entirely
removed from the material, both in source and response. Even Edna’s fascination with the sea
reflects the degree to which her desires are rooted in the intangible and evoke physical, rather
primal responses that are not explicitly articulated: “She could hear the ripple of the water, the
flapping sail. She could see the glint of the moon upon the bay, and could feel the soft, gusty
beating of the hot south wind. A subtle current of desire passed through her body, weakening
her hold upon the brushes and making her eyes burn” (Chopin 58). Paula A. Treichler makes an
important connection between Edna’s first powerful response to Mademoiselle Reisz’s
performance, and its juxtaposition to the preceding passage in which Edna learns to swim on her
own. In reference to the sentence, “She could have shouted for joy. She did shout of joy,”
Treichler writes that, “no longer a passive recipient of others instructions…Edna’s action breaks
through the mentalistic language of this symbolic picture, as though the “she” that began the
sentence as gathered power and now released” (Treichler 358-59). In this experience, the power
of autonomy inspires expression that is manifested as inarticulate shouting. The juxtaposition of
Edna’s experience with sweeping, indescribable musically-induced passions and the expression
that results from her decision to act as subject in union with the sea, emphasizes Edna’s
connection with the nonverbal and subsequent disconnect with existing language.
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Edna’s unarticulated desires are characterized by formless, cyclical, and transient
qualities that parallel both the figurative and literal patterns of movement. Edna occupies
various locations throughout the novel and cyclically begins and ends at Grand Isle, exchanging
a number of residences in between. This restless movement parallels her continually exchanged
outlets for expression in attempts to appease her desires. This metaphor of movement and its
parallel to language also achieves representation through the continuous and seductive presence
of the sea, which constantly calls to Edna with its “never ceasing, whispering, clamoring,
murmuring,” and like her desires is formless and cyclical in nature (Chopin 13).6 The physical
body not only serve as the vehicle for movement, but represent the root of woman’s status as
object. The body serves as woman’s primary means of representation and expression, through
dress, appearance, and the exchange of the body in marriage.
The crux of Edna’s fate rests in her inability to articulate her desires, despite new
recognition of the presence of “thoughts and emotions which never [had] voiced themselves,”
(Chopin 47). In light of Edna’s abandonment of her marital and maternal responsibilities, and
despite her rejection of consumerism and pursuit of the erotic through romance and the arts,
Edna still possesses cyclical desires that no better articulated by the end of novel . Language,
therefore, exists as the essential component of the Edna’s decision to give herself up to the sea.
As Luce Irigaray and other scholars of language assert, language possesses the power to
construct our reality, and when language fails to offer a reality compatible with deeply-rooted
desires, alternatives realities to fulfill these desires essentially cease to exist. As critic Patricia
Yaegar notes, “The Awakening’s most radical awareness that Edna inhabits a world of limited
As Schweitzer notes, “In the entreaty of the sea, voice and touch are inseparable, the one leading the soul to
solitude through a language without words, the other totally enveloping the body in a physical caress,” and it is this
inseparable duality of nonverbal language and the physical that explains Edna’s deep resonance with the sea
(Schweitzer 161).
6
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linguistic possibilities, of limited possibilities for interpreting and re-organizing her feelings,
and therefore of limited possibilities for action” (Yaeger 200). The final scene of The
Awakening in which Edna stands naked on the beach of Grand Isle, a bird with a broken wing
struggling to circle overhead, coalesces the full meaning of language in relation to Edna’s
decision to give herself to the sea. The “voice” of the sea that continuously calls to Edna not
only parallels the nature of her desires but exists as a relatable form of articulation, in that the
voice of the sea cannot be understand by others; it has no recognizable, adequate language, yet
it is sensuous, physical, formless, and wholly autonomous—an embodiment of all that Edna
seeks. In giving herself to the sea, Edna thus achieves the closest resemblance of a feminine
language. Wharton’s own choice of language in this final scene directs attention to the nearing
of or longing for a feminine discourse, infusing the sibilant sounds of “s” words such as “an
abyss of solitude) and relying upon emotive, natural imagery removed from the context of
consumerism. Wharton’s emphasis on sound absent of language communicates through union
with the sea, Edna transcends language altogether: “Edna heard her father’s voice and her sister
Margaret’s. She heard the barking of an old dog that was chained to the sycamore tree. The
spurs of the cavalry office clanged as he walked across the porch. There was the hum of bees,
and the musky odor of pinks filled the air” (Wharton 139).
Comparative analysis of Sister Carrie, The House of Mirth, and The Awakening reveals
an intersection between language and gender. This intersection provides a more accurate
understanding of fallen New Women in Gilded Age literature and explains why despite Carrie,
Lily, and Edna’s social, economic, and class differences, they all confront the same ceaseless,
cyclical desires and tragic fates. The motif of the unspoken, dominance of consumerist culture,
and relationship between the body, movement, and language, demonstrate how the absence of
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adequate language complicates and obstructs authentic articulation. The linguistic theories of
Lacan, Cixious, Irigaray, Spender, and Lakoff contribute foundational support for the concept of
language as paternalistic and relational to the masculine, consequently limiting the female in
both articulation and reality. The Symbolic Order in which society operates posits women as
inherently inferior, and through the discourse of consumerism, assigns object status to women
that emphasizes and perpetuates their roles as commodities with commoditized desires. As
language is the foundational framework for constructing identity, when language fails to
adequately express a desired identity, as in the case of New Women like Carrie, Lily, and Edna,
the potential for conceptualizing and articulating a means to formulate new identity and
sequester desire becomes essentially obsolete.
Carrie, Lily, and Edna’s intermittent attempts to express desire as subjects exemplify the
inadequacy of language and the manner in which it problematizes each woman’s selfconceptualization and appeasement of desire. These articulations are vague, disjointed, and
foreign, and each heroine often acknowledges that they cannot name their desires, emotions, or
comprehend the “secret voice” within them. Each novel’s signature scene—Carrie rocking,
Lily as object in tableaux, and Edna standing before the sea—communicates isolation,
perpetuity, and the nonverbal, connected themes that reinforce each heroine’s problematic
position as a New Woman without language to comprehend her desires. As each heroine attains
varying opportunities for financial and social autonomy, divorced from marriage and
motherhood, the discontent, desire, or death that ensues despite these opportunities, indicates
that each heroine cannot escape an overarching construct rooted beneath class, status,
motherhood, marriage, and fiscal autonomy. That construct, as textual evidence reveals, is the
absence of language. These tragic fates are perhaps inevitable, for the New Woman can either
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remain within the confines of consumerist discourse and succumb to ceaseless desire, or, she
can extract herself from the discourse entirely, committing instead to the long silence of death.