As a matter of fact, only Abe, the reckless slave whose ―imagination was awakened by the attractions of his field of adventure; by the free roving of the sailor‖ (471) becomes, in Kennedy‘s exploration of manly ideals, the true model of manliness, a cavalier ―impelled by that love of daring which the romancers call chivalry‖ (482). He is enjoying ―the full perfection of manhood‖ (477) and the term ‗manhood‘ is actually repeated four times throughout the chapter to refer to Abe—a term that has been withheld from the white gentlemen characters‘ description in the first four-hundred pages of the narrative. Kennedy‘s ―frustration in man-making‖ (Mayfield 24) has reached a climax, even more so as Mark Littleton concludes the novel within the walls of the plantation-library by looking for heroic acts of manhood in some ancient biography of Captain John Smith. Kennedy seems to suggest that, at a time when ―the very characteristics that once imparted manliness to the country gentleman [i.e., the squire‘s leisure, his attachment to the soil, his protracted boyhood, his circle of dependents, and his highly localized, contained world] were being relegated to a domesticated life of femininized passivity [and] left behind by new men‖ (Mayfield 24), the only models for republican manhood belonged to history. Swallow Barn may reveal, as Mayfield justly remarks, that ―within a pastoral arcadia of endless games and genteel foolishness,‖ mock-heroic attempts at romance were ―passé and that the Southerner‘s overblown sense of honor was becoming a theatrical liability‖ (24). Abe‘s story, however, verges on the caricatural: because this embodiment of manhood is ―sent out from the pastoral place off to sea where he sails well and dies bravely in a stormy Chesapeake rescue attempt (Bakker 45), whiteness remains freed of the burden of representing racial difference. As a
result, and even if outwardly dealing with the question of race, Swallow Barn prioritizes, not questions of class or race, but rather the masculine over anything else. Because it is Abe who is portrayed as the ultimate embodiment of manhood in the novel, part of the process of exploring the masculine in Swallow Barn may thus require re-visiting staples and icons of Southern masculinity.
The deconstruction is facilitated by the gentlemen at play in Swallow Barn. Ned Hazard is not only homeless (at least to the extent that he has not yet inherited the plantation, to which he is nonetheless entitled), but he is also nameless: ―Ned‖ is but a nickname. He is also, and most importantly, a ―rank-less‖ boy who has been cast out of the theater of ―college laurels,‖ only to creep ―quietly back to Swallow Barn‖ (61). Even then, and as Bakker has rightly remarked:
Ned is less interested in helping Meriwether manage Swallow Barn than in organizing household theatricals where the slaves are taught to provide the special sound effects. His playful exuberance is further expressed with a touch of scorn for art when he mocks the voices and attitudes of opera singers of both sexes while walking in the woods with Littleton (44).
He is now engaged, the narrator explains, in ―lonely pursuits‖ of adventure and picturesque incidents. On that note, Stephen Berry remarks that Southern gentlemen, who came away from college, often found themselves ―armed only with unachievable ideals and dreams of greatness so lofty they had little practical application‖ (36). Ned is no different: placed in a situation of social obscurity, his patrimony—like Gordon in Thomas Nelson Page‘s Gordon Keith (1903)—is that he is the son of a Gentleman. Educated on the plantation by Chub, and then sent off to Princeton, Ned drank, dueled, and later fell in love with an older woman with whom he nearly eloped. He then headed to South America in search of a purpose in life. There, he was ―well bitten with fleas,‖ and apprehended as a ‗spy,‘ and nearly assassinated as
a ‗heretic‘ to later come home ―the most disquixotted cavalier that ever hung up his shield at the end of a scurvy crusade‖ (53). He has still, however, a comfortable patrimony, as the narrator explains that he has ―has ample liberty to pursue his own whims in regard to his future occupation in life‖ (49). Not without irony, the use of the word ―whims,‖ in this instance, seems to indicate that Ned is more a boy than a man. Ned, the inheritor of the plantation, is also seen, on many occasions, preferring the company of boys to that of men. To the children of Swallow Barn, he is, as the narrator remarks, ―especially captivating‖ (52).
Yet, the childish and disquixotted Ned is engaged throughout the novel in a very manly performance to capture the heart of Bel Tracy against his most precious enemy (pun intended), Swansdown the dandy. As a matter of fact, the core of the love-story that constitutes the main narrative concerns precisely the tension between two interpretations of manliness: on the one hand, Kennedy portrays an older patriarchal system with a vision of masculinity that is interpreted as something innate and fixed; on the other hand, the younger ―beaux,‖ Ned and Swansdown, represent a ―younger‖ generation, in which masculinity appears as something performative and ―theatrical,‖ a fluid social construct close to make- believe. At the heart of the distinction between the two ―beaux‖ is the debate concerning whether manhood is innate, a social construction, or social performance, and at the centre of this masculine negotiation is the Belle, a young creature whose mind is full of fancies from the 14th century.
In this mise en abyme of masculine models, Swansdown‘s masculinity is predicated on how effectively he appeals to the approval of a fickle public eye. Swansdown‘s entry on stage causes much debate and interest and is theatrical in itself. Yet it is only a few chapters later, after a lot of suspense, that he enters the novel as himself. Rip (Frank Meriwether‘s son) is the one to introduce him and says that ―if we wanted to see something worth looking at, we should come downstairs quickly, for there was Mr. Swansdown spinning up to the house, and
making the gravel fly like hail‖ (121). The title of the chapter, ―A Man of Pretensions‖ (Chap. XIII) sets the stage: Swansdown, ―the phenomenon that excited Rip‘s admiration‖ (121) is really a sight to wonder at.
Being observed from behind the windows of the house, Swansdown becomes a wealthy spectacle, someone to be looked at: ―it was very evident that Mr. Singleton Oglethorpe Swansdown was a man to produce a sensation in the country [. . .] and seemed determined to please everybody‖ (123). This ―very model of delicate and dainty gentleman‖ (110) arrives in a new light-blue curricle, the plate of the harness mouldings ―glitter[ing] with an astounding brilliancy in the sun, and the spokes of the wheels emit[ing] that spirited flare which belongs to an equipage of the highest polish‖ (110). Ned, at the same moment, is shown standing in the dark confined space of Mark‘s ―chamber,‖ a space usually associated with the feminine, rather than the masculine (100). The allusion is confirmed by the posture of Mark and Ned, both lying ―extended at full length upon the bed,‖ with their ―feet up against the bed-posts‖ (121).
The narrator evokes the connection between the sunlight and the public ―spotlight‖ that informs the theme of masculine self-presentation throughout the novel. The ―sun‖ seems to expose all that is to be revealed and everybody engages in the ―spectacle‖ of Swansdown. Accordingly, he is observed from behind doors or windows. The portrait given is therefore indirect (blurry even), reinforcing the mysterious nature of this man. The different interpretations of his character add to the mystery. Indeed, Singleton Oglethorpe Swansdown is, to the women, ―an elegant, refined, sweet-spoken, grave, and dignified gentleman‖ and, to men like Ned, ―the most preposterous ass—the most enormous humbug—the most remarkable coxcomb in Virginia,‖ and ―[i]t is hard,‖ says the narrator, ―to tell the counterfeit from the real in these things‖ (113).
The two younger Belles, Prudence and Catherine, particularly, are faced with this dilemma. Both engage in a sort of melodramatic soap-opera in which they both imagine themselves in love with, and soon after hating, Swansdown. Behind this romantic endeavour, the reader cannot miss that the Belles, here, are trying to decipher the character of Swansdown and to make out the ―real‖ from the fake. As seen by Prudence, ―there are men, [. . .] of such attenuated fibre, that they shrink at the rude touch of reality. They have the sensitiveness of the mimosa, and find their affectations withering up where the blast of scrutiny blows too roughly upon them. Such a man is [aptly named] Singleton‖ (299). Catherine later acknowledges, ―I have a horror of a man of extravagant professions, and have often doubted the sincerity of [Singleton] Swansdown‖ (303). Prudence answers, ―I should doubt it myself [. . .] if it were not remarkable for those affected ornaments of style which disfigure even the best of his effusions. You may easily see that it abounds in those vicious decorations which betray a false taste, those superfluous redundancies that sparkle out in his compositions‖ (304).
Such an apt pleaser is yet unable to please a woman. For Harvey Riggs, ―kinsman of the Tracy family‖ (89) gifted with ―strong and earnest good sense‖ (89), Swansdown is ―such an ass‖ (94). Tellingly, ―[h]e can reckon,‖ the narrator ironically adds, ―more refusals on his head than a through-paced political office-hunter‖ (123-4) and ―is believed now to encourage the opinion that your raging belles are not apt to make the best wives; that a discreet lady, of good family, and unpretending manners, is most likely to make a sensible man happy; great beauty is not essential‖ (124). His refusals in love become closely connected to his failure on the political stage, since the narrator does not fail to mention that Swansdown ―has twice been very nearly elected to Congress, and ascribes his failure to his not being sufficiently active in the canvass‖ (123). The description indicates that men like Swansdown might be great performing socialites but prove to be very poor social achievers indeed.
Swansdown is here clearly associated with the personage of the Dandy, for he has ―a tall figure, and an effeminate and shallow complexion, somewhat impaired perhaps by ill health, a head of dark hair, partially bald, a soft black eye, a gentle movement, a musical, low- toned voice, and a highly finished style of dress‖ (122). When he leaves the scene, the theatrical spotlight follows him: ―the philosopher, poet, patron, arbitrator, and aspiring statesman, ascended his radiant car, and whisked away with the brisk and astounding flourish that belongs to this race of gifted mortals‖ (156). The narrator, opposing Swansdown to Ned‘s namelessness and selflessness, does not hide that [Singleton] Swansdown, who takes special delight ―to hear himself talk‖ (123), is self-conscious and likes the public eye, for, he says:
there is nothing equal to the self-possession of a gentleman who has travelled about the world, and frequented the circles of fashion, when he comes into a quiet, orderly, respectable family in the country [. . .] His memory is stored with a multitude of pretty sayings [. . .] which he embellishes with a due proportion of sentiment (123).
Even though Swansdown cannot be definitely labelled as one of these businessmen that Kennedy execrated, his arrival and presence at the plantation associate him with the lust for gain and fame and the insincerity of manners which, for the narrator, characterize the artificiality of a new order asking men to show their manliness to the public and depend upon it for approval.
What is worse is that Swansdown‘s charm even appeals to the older generation for whom the lawyer-gentleman settles the claim of land. Swansdown launches into a ―long, prosing discourse with Mr. Tracy‖ (296) as it can be read that ―the achievement of the award had wrought him into that state of self-complacency which generally attends upon ambition when saturated with a great exploit. He [. . .] was pleased to float upon the billow of his vanity, high borne above all frivolous things‖ (296). As a consequence, Ned Hazard (whose
surname may derive from a passage in Shakespeare‘s King John that the realist writer William Deam Howells would later use to title one of his best novels, A Hazard of New Fortunes) not only endures economic uncertainty, but he must also negotiate his way (from boyhood to manhood) through a world in which such a deceitful and charming character as Swansdown (Ned‘s rival) is publicly celebrated as a ―gentleman‖ because of his pleasing manners and the outward signs of manliness he projects. Ned, however, seems unqualified for this test of masculinity, since ―he is a man who can no more hold a secret than a crystal decanter can hold wine invisible‖ (108). According to the narrator, Ned ―seems to have an unfortunate tendency [. . .] to present himself to [Bel] under those drawbacks which most shock her conceptions of the decorum she is inclined to expect from a lover‖ (109). If Bel ―has a vein of romance in her composition which [. . .] gives her [. . .] a predilection for that solemn foppery which women sometimes imagine to be refinement,‖ Ned ―has not the slightest infusion‖ of it (109). By contrast, and as the narrator aptly underscores, Ned Hazard is ―purblind to all the consequences of his own conduct, and as little calculated to play the politician as a child‖ (221). There is a shift in masculine power that indicates that the stronger manifestation of masculinity is the one displayed by Swansdown, which involves manipulation and deceit.
The character of the gentleman is perverted here, for if Victorian men like Swansdown were usually ridiculed as ―dull‖ and effeminate dandies, here ―the grave and empty pedantry in Singleton Swansdown‖ is, in Bel‘s eyes,―so like the hero of a novel‖ (110). Artful conversation is, in Swansdown‘s characterization, vital to genteel status and for the Southern Belle‘s approval in proving a man‘s worth in Southern society. On that note and talking about Harvey Riggs, Bel Tracy emphasizes the fabricated character of Southern knighthood, as she says: ―I have trained him to it. Now, Mr. Cavalier, your hand‖ (106). As is the case with the trained Cavalier, Swansdown‘s passion for performative masculinity, his conversational and
oratical grace, become commodities that he publicly trades in or uses to separate himself from non-elite rivals. As Bel herself adds, ―what she terms, a refined gentleman,‖ is essentially ―a character which runs a fair risk of being set down in the general opinion as sufficiently dull and insipid‖ (110). If historian Kenneth Greenberg has defined oratory as ―the public display of a superior personality,‖ allowing gentlemen to perform ―their superior intelligence and virtue‖ (101), Bel reveals the changes that have occurred on the public stage, for insipid oratory and pedantry have been recognized as the real thing while the refined gentleman of intelligence and virtue may no longer be accepted by the popular mind as an effective model of manhood.152
To resist Dandyism and performative masculinity, men can refuse to perform in the public ―spotlight‖ or can retreat from it into the shade of seclusion, where men might remain unconquerable by women and domesticity. Rip Meriwether, for instance, described by the narrator as ―a shrewd, mischievous imp‖ and ―a chartered libertine‖ (40) has an air of ―an untrimmed colt torn down and disorderly‖ (41) and prefers the natural world (and here Kennedy seems to pay homage to Washington Irving‘s Rip Van Winkle). Also for Ralph Tracy, the young man rejects the company of women and the public realm. In particular, ―he contracted slovenly habits of dress at college, and has not since abandoned them; has a dislike to the company of women [. . .] and lives a good deal out of doors, not being fond, as he says, of being stuck up in the parlor to hear the women talk‖ (79). The idea of a world away from women, a woman-free zone is appealing to Rip seeking to heal beleaguered masculinity. Independence, being a central element to the shaping of the Jacksonian masculine ethos (this was particularly visible when A. Jackson declared war on big government and on the Bank of America), Rip and Ralph‘s insurrectionary movements may be read as gendered performances through which untainted masculinity is tested, proved, and achieved.
152
Dark, enclosed rooms (and domesticity) are indeed seen as stifling to masculine power. Ned, for instance, in his school years, is preoccupied by a fear that he will never escape from such rooms and enter the ―open‖ world. Dark rooms, it seems, are synonymous with the death of a predominately male power; on this analysis, confinement becomes synonymous with a lack of manhood. Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar argue that this is an exclusively feminine fear, but intriguingly enough, Kennedy seems ready to explore this unconventional and ―unmanly‖ male fear.153
The image of a boy locked in the closet by his mother-figure represents an interesting inversion of Gilbert and Gubar‘s Madwoman in the Attic. Ralph‘s rejection of the mother and of women in general, however, does not seem to mark a movement from boyhood to manhood, from feminized home to a more masculine and aggressive world. As for Rip, the latter is still a boy, with the influence of college years still heavily felt upon him. Rip rejects the public realm not to assert his masculinity, but because he is afraid of being enclosed. The novel here has a gendered argument that potentially divides political and public space into inside/outside, domestic/public, female/male arenas. Ned projects another model. Like Rip, he refers to his young years as a fear of being enclosed; yet, he also knows that manliness—as college years have taught his fellow college students— is essentially performative, for ―the chivalrous lore displayed [at the time] by Ned Hazard was a matter of college renown‖ (61). The underlying validity of Ned‘s worries implies that males who completely disregard public opinion may be jeopardizing their status as men.
Ned, also, is intent on fleeing society in order to maintain his idealized views of aristocratic tradition: autonomy, heroism, and comradeship. But he is cripplingly aware that a
Hopkins University Press, 1985).
153
In Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell seems ready to explore the same unconventional masculinity. Rhett assumes the role of mother and father, and when Bonnie, his daughter, dies, he feels her imprisonment