Was she dangerous? Or just lied to? Or...both?

     Hannah Foster's Coquette was, I have to admit, an extremely interesting read. Here, the readers are finally given an insight into the world, thoughts, and emotions of late 18th century womankind. And then, the 'poster child' (Eliza Wharton) for female independence is 'ruined,' and her respectability, admirable desires for true love, and dedication to assert her independence both of mind and spirit become something of a set of symptoms of whore-ish, devlish, fallen ways. What were once so admirable qualities become her greatest faults--her stepping stones to sin.

     As soon as I closed the book upon finishing it, Michael Jackson's song Dangerous came to mind. Literally, right after I shut the book for the last time, the beat and lyrics of Dangerous were in my head. Maybe it's because Stanford does refer to Eliza as "dangerous" a few times in the book, but it started my wheels a-turning. If Sanford thought she was "dangerous" because of her so-called tempting, luring, fresh, volatile ways, I began to wonder what Eliza's 'theme song' would be for her predicament. And thus, an idea for this blog was born.

Major Peter Sanford's take on the situation:

Whatever your take on Michael Jackson might be, you have to admit...the man could dance, choreograph, and sing.

      Like Jaqlyn said in class on Monday, the natives (in Diaz’s account of Aztec conquest) aren’t given a face until they are a part of the conquest (either as plunder or when they are coerced into sexual relationships). How is Cortez’s men’s treatment of the natives any different than the way men treated the ‘courtable,’ available women of Eliza's time? Eliza is faceless until she is wanted by a man. She then is finally given room to express her own personality in the presence of Sanford, but only upon recognizing her does she even get room to move about the room with unrestrained grace and fluidity. Then, as we all know, Sanford decides that he must have Eliza. He must court her. He must make her his. He must assert his dominance over her. His only regret in desiring her so is that “[he] really wish[es] she had less merit, that [he] might have plausible excuse for neglecting her” (Foster 116). Sanford does" neglect her," and eventually impregnates her with child. Even though she is the fallen hero of the story, Sanford is still given room to speak and says to his friend at the end of the book, “Let it warn you, my friend, to shun the dangerous paths which I have trodden, that you may be never be involved in the hopelessly ignominy and wretchedness of Peter Sanford” (Foster 166). Maybe Sanford is referring to the dangerous path he tread in wooing Eliza, but I venture to see it as Sanford's warning to stay away from the dangerous, independent, sexual woman (because, of course, it is always a woman's fault for a man's demise. She is the bitch who ruined his care-free batchelor life. Note the heavy use of sarcasm :[). A woman like...just...like...Eliza. Just like Michael Jackson said, "she's so dangerous."

Eliza's feelings on her predicament:
Click here: Tell Me Lies by Natalie Cole
     This song is one of my absolute favorites. Natalie Cole (Nat King Cole's, a famous jazz singer, daughter) is just, well, amazing. This song is from one of my favorite childhood movies, Cats Don't Dance. Randy Newman wrote all the songs and lyrics (this explains why I still love the music from a KID'S movie). That's okay; I'm okay with admitting I still like the occasional cartoon now and then. This movie just has an incredible, toe-tapping, uplifting soundtrack. Love it even today.
     But, back to the literature--I do believe that Eliza is one of the most powerful, independent, assertive, goal-driven women in late 18th century literature, but I can also identify with her situation and see how easy it would be to believe the fantastic-sounding, emotion-filled, so easily-believable lies of one or another Peter Sanford. We've all done it. I've done it. It's so easy to get caught up in the dream of something or someone that you let your perception of reality and your wall to those lies crumble like a metaphorical Berlin Wall. Then, you're kind of screwed and left cold and alone, only wishing he was still there to tell you those lies once again. Though they be lies, they at least were comforting and familiar.

     Eliza was lied to. She wanted so badly (and had a right to want to be) a part of a “happy pair ... Should it ever be my fate to ear the hymenial chain, may I be thus united! … The purest and most ardent affection, the greatest countenance of taste and wishes distinguish this lovely couple … they have no satisfaction look for beyond each other,” that she let the lies of the corrupt Peter Sanford lure her into a false relationship (Foster 14). But, who can blame her!? I certainly can't. In a world of cordiality and formality, to have a real, loving, caring, friendship and relationship with your spouse was only the stuff of dreams. Even though Sanford lied to her and made her a means to an end to bolster his self-confidence and overpowering, conquering demeanor, I can't criticize her 'lack' of judgment in the matter. He offered her 'love.' He offered her safety. He offered her about as equal as a relationship as anyone in that time could. Did he love her? Maybe at the end of the book. And that's a small maybe. Did she love him? She loved the idea of him, but the actual person of Major Peter Sanford was a complete and utter stranger. Eliza was told lies, and I believe that--even until the end of her life--all she wanted to be told was some more lies to bolster imitated happiness.
     Yes, two different stories about the situation. So, what do you decide? Was Eliza dangerous? Was she lied to? Or both?

Foster, Hannah. Coquette. New York: Oxford University Press, 1986. Print.