William Dean Howells, "The Rise of Silas Lapham"

The title character of William Dean Howells’ “The Rise of Silas Lapham” problematizes class distinction and the issue of morality in relation to social mobility. A preoccupation with “belonging”—demonstrated in the Lapham family’s inability to assimilate to the culture of the affluent and the complicated inter-class romance of Penelope and Tom—underlies and reinforces the inevitable differences of social class. However, Howells’ novel works in service of a larger theory. Beyond the recognition of the difficulty of upward mobility, the character of Silas Lapham anatomizes class determinism.

            Through the economic rise, social fall, and moral recovery of the Lapham family, we are privy to Silas’ process of social understanding—in his words, “a hole opened for me, and I crept out of it” (365). The Laphams escape the danger of excessive pride and retreat from the apparent moral decay of the upper crust, returning to their original home in the country and their former class position. Only here does Silas attain complete happiness and feel belonging. Throughout the novel there is no change in social class: the Laphams, who discover firsthand the risk of upward mobility, revert to their former class position; the Coreys maintain their upper-crust social set and perspectives; Tom and Penelope, who defy the exclusive nature of class, no longer hold a place within this stratified society; and the minor characters live on in their given social positions. From this static nature of social class we are able to discern a narrative on class determinism, the belief that the social position in which we are raised determines our values and behaviors, in essence solidifying our place within societal structure.

            Class, as demonstrated by Silas Lapham, is not strictly defined by monetary resources and income, but also by cultural capital and performance. Such cultural capital—an understanding of qualities, values, mannerisms, commodities, and social norms characteristic of a certain social class—is internalized from birth. Distancing himself from his working-class roots as he harvests his fortune in the paint business, Silas maintains the values and qualities attributed to that class: an appreciation for a strong work ethic, the necessity of family cohesion, an esteem for sincerity. This collection of cultural capital is in contradiction to the values and qualities of the upper-class, accounting for Lapham’s inability to “belong.” In an attempt to forge a place for themselves among the social elite, the family must perform their social role, creating a disconnect between their class position and their true selves. In addition to a salient consciousness of his lack of the cultural capital of the wealthy, Silas also gains recognition that, in order to conform to high-class society, he must relinquish his sincerity, his integrity, and—arguably—his identity. 

William Dean Howells, "The Rise of Silas Lapham"

            Howells’ novel illustrates the exclusive nature of social classes and reconstructs our notions of wealth. Class, as demonstrated by the title character, is not strictly defined by monetary resources and income, but also by cultural capital and performance. To be upper-class, one must have an understanding of affluent culture, mannerisms, commodities, and social norms, in addition to upper-class finances.

            Silas Lapham is demonstrative of a new American “type,” the upwardly-mobile businessman. He no longer belongs in the class category of his farming, working-class relatives as the mineral paint business allows him to harvest a fortune. However, Lapham’s change in socioeconomic status underlines distinct issues in American class stratification. The Lapham family’s integration into the world of the upper-class depicts the difficulty of social mobility, especially in a time where “old money” is in conflict with “new money.” Wealth had associations of cultural capital, of generational inheritance—not merely monetarily, but also inheriting a certain type of knowledge. As the Laphams progress into this affluent society, it becomes evident that they lack the necessary social knowledge to fully assimilate into upper-class culture.

            Chelsea’s blog highlights how the Lapham family feels the need to feign their possession of cultural capital. This is most salient in the building of their new house. In their Nankeen Square home, the Laphams had bought excessive luxuries, spending recklessly with no heed for fashionable items or clothing. Their lack of understanding for upper-class society is shown when the family only realizes they live in an unfashionable neighborhood after being told so. “With all [Silas’] prosperity,” the novel notes, the Laphams “had not had a social life” (25). Their abundant and aimless spending was for the benefit of none but themselves, not recognizing the customs of dinners and guests. Silas Lapham begins to acknowledge the values and norms of upper-class society when speaking with the architect to build his new house, on the water-side of notable Beacon Street. As Chelsea explored, the bookcases serve as one example of the necessary cultural capital to integrate into higher class. Whereas the Lapham daughters borrow books from the library, the expectation for the wealthy is a value for literature, demonstrated in owning one’s own books and a conversational understanding of well-known literature. Secondly, the architect convinces Silas to build a music room, regardless of the fact that neither seem to have musical inclination or interest.

            Silas Lapham’s inability to truly assimilate into upper-class culture is solidified at the Corey’s dinner party. The Coreys, anatomizing the “old money” construct, have both the wealth and cultural capital to justify their class position; their family is an enactment of generational riches, holds a sense of entitlement to their societal role, and masters the performative act of wealth. In preparation for said dinner, the Laphams are extremely conscious of their lack of cultural capital. In an effort to appear deserving of their social class, the Laphams analyze the necessary behaviors, dress, and appearance. Mrs. Lapham and Irene purchase new gowns, while Silas studies a book of etiquette and agonizes over wearing gloves, powdering his hands, and the color of his waistcoat. Such anxiety is later justified, as Silas embarrasses himself by entering with gloves and—after many drinks—commits the ultimate social faux-pas of betraying the affluent’s appreciation for stoicism, revealing too many details about his life and throwing off his carefully-fabricated façade.

            The Lapham family experiences the contradiction of social class, realizing that monetary wealth does not assure class status. Silas, in his efforts to assimilate into the upper-class, recognizes that wealth is an impression, and he is not part of the world in the way he thinks he is. The Laphams cannot do the aesthetic social performance necessary to be upper-class, and therefore, are caught between the cultural capital of their past social position and the wealth that—according to Silas—should dictate their class.

Jacob Riis, "How the Other Half Lives"

            Jacob Riis, in his informational glance at the immigration period, creates a comparative view of the pyramidal structure of social class, blaming the plight of the poor on the horrible living conditions of dilapidated tenement buildings and exposing the exploitation of the lower class, specifically immigrants, by those with monetary power. His argument for social change is drawn from the impression that the upper-half of the population “cared little for the struggles, and less for the fate of those who were underneath, so long as it was able to hold them there” (1).

            In Riis’ exploration of the tenement, he employs the anecdotes from immigrant boarders to display the harsh conditions and unsympathetic landlords. He delves into thick description of the lack of ventilation and light, the presence of mold and rats, and the pervasive “slovenliness, discontent, privation, and ignorance” (3). Riis speaks of irrational rent prices for rooms incapable of holding a family, overcrowding in poor conditions. Living in the tenements, one is exposed to disease, sickness, and death from lack of ventilation or light. In the wider view of the economy, this irreverence for the plight of the poor directly correlates to crime rate; those who commit crime are often people “whose homes had ceased to be sufficiently separate, decent, and desirable to afford” (1). The upper-half must care for the “other half” if not for human empathy, but for the financial strain.

            Jacob Riis underlines the idea of the poor immigrants as a class, ethnicizing poverty. Those who live in tenements are nearly exclusively immgrants: “when once I asked the agent of a notorious Fourth Ward alley how many people might be living in it I was told: one hundred and forty families, one hundred Irish, thirty-eight Italian, and two that spoke the German tongue” (8). Beyond being lower-class, lacking the cultural knowledge and sometimes language acquisition to find decent employment, these ethnic groups fronted opposition from the upper-crust, unwelcome into society. Riis speaks of America missing a “distinctively American community” (8). This opposition plays out in the tenements, where landlords exploit the boarders by forcing high rents for disliked immigrants, a price unreasonable for the dilapidated building and tiny rooms.

This intense view of tenements is in service of Riis’ project to illuminate the carelessness of the landowners; the proprietors accused the “filthy habits of the tenants as an excuse for the condition of their property” (3), seeking neither to improve the situation, end their tolerance for such living, or recognize their illogical human greed preventing change. The poor succumb to unlivable conditions, struggling to meet the standards placed upon them by higher classes. As Riis explains, “if it shall appear that the sufferings and the sins of the ‘other half,’ and the evil they breed, are but as a just punishment upon the community that gave it no other choice, it will be because that is the truth” (1). Exploitation of the class structure has pervaded our society, allowing those with financial resources and power to perpetuate the suffering of the “other half.”

            

Mark Twain, "The $30,000 Bequest"

            Illustrating the fleeting nature of money and the grappling behaviors of social ladder climbers, Mark Twain comments on an inherent aspect of human nature. Regardless of our social position, the integrity of our morals, or self-claimed happiness, we—as humans—are all susceptible to corruption. Despite the greatest of intentions, we will inevitably succumb to temptation.

            Tilbury Foster, the distant relation who bequeaths his “wealth” to Sally and Aleck Foster, is the single character who has a consciousness of the danger of money and riches. Although one could argue that he is merely the clever antagonist who instigates evil, Tilbury acknowledges the ultimate human weakness to corruption. Such corruption he sets forward, for the ultimate benefit of his victims, in the “malignant work” (2) of great sums of money.

            Although this money is eventually discovered to be imaginary, its effects on the recipients soon become very real. There is a rapid decay of familial connection, as the parents shift to being “silent, distraught, and strangely unentertaining” (3). Slowly their children leave the centrality of their lives as money claims their attentions. Within a day of learning the news of their inheritance, the parents begin to neglect their daughters, for “the children had been gone an hour before their absence was noticed” (3).

            Their enthusiasm and zeal for social mobility spurs a disregard for reality. Caught in the “delirium of bliss” (7) accompanying dreaming of wealth, they one night absently forget to put out the candle burning in the parlor, excusing the overlook because they could afford to let it burn.

            In addition, the preoccupation with financial abundance paralleled to moral disintegration. Their anxiety to possess the bequeathed money incites an improper anticipation of Tilbury’s death. Swept up into a delirium, intoxicated with the possibilities of their wealth, they lose their religion, they “fell—and broke the Sabbath” (14). Later, Aleck yields to dishonesty and keeping secrets from her husband: “She was breaking the compact and concealing it from him” (18).

            As we follow the natural collapse of the Fosters’ simplistic life into one of anger, greed, and immorality, Twain draws a connection to a broader theme. Before learning of the potential inheritance, Aleck and Sally were hard-working, amiable people; however, the prospect of wealth essentially ruined their sense of self and appreciation for comfortable survival. Therefore, Twain does not distinguish between the selfish and the morally-sound; all humans, regardless of religion, conscience, or contentment, are susceptible to temptation and the degenerative nature of corruption.

Mark Twain, "The $30,000 Bequest"

            Mark Twain, in “The $30,000 Bequest,” employs binaries to mark distinctions between rich and poor, as well as the qualities that accompany those class positions. The first binary that Twain upsets is that of gender norms. As the two main characters are introduced, this deliberate gender inversion becomes evident from the names: “all four of [the family’s] members had pet names, Saladin’s was a curious and unsexing one—Sally; and so was Electra’s—Aleck” (2). As the plot progresses, the reversal of gender expectations pervades their reaction to the imaginary wealth. According to standard gender roles, the male serves as breadwinner for the family and manages the finances. However, in this short story, it is Aleck who remains frugal and cautiously instructs herself on the stock market and margins. She is constantly composed and business-minded as she seeks to expand their wealth. In contradiction to the female norm of expenditure, Sally becomes invested with lofty ideals of luxury items, constantly begging to purchase excessive material objects.

            The irony of the elusive nature of money is highlighted by a binary that effectively creates the moral center of the story: the separation between the real and the imaginary. The bequeathed wealth was promised by Tilbury Foster in an all-knowing prediction that “money had given him most of his troubles and exasperations, and he wished to place it where there was good hope that it would continue its malignant work” (2). However, the piece is given weight by the fact that, in the end, this inheritance was a fraud; the grandiose and superfluous wealth was simply imaginary. As time drives on, Aleck and Sally live two strands of life: the real, where their honest living and simple, well-earned home focus their affectionate, careful lives; and the imagined, a dangerous daydream preoccupying their time and, consequently, leaving them to neglect reality. The imaginary wealth soon catalyzes a change of perspective, a fixation with materialism and class position.

            Twain uses these binaries in service of a broader idea. Through a veneer of humor, Twain exposes a deeper, less-comical theory: obsession with money and material value has the potential to lead to a complete loss of self. Aleck and Sally begin with a reasonable, decent life and maintain an affectionate, lively family. It is not until the possibility of glamorous wealth is revealed to them that disappointment in reality occurs. Their simple and happy life is jeopardized for ungrounded fantasies. Twain provides a cautionary tale to the danger of monetary desires and the loss of identity that ensues.

Stephen Crane, "Maggie: A Girl of the Streets"

           In Stephen Crane’s novella, the act of wandering becomes a critical anatomization of the condition of the poor. Near the conclusion of the text, Maggie roams the streets, seeking recognition, acknowledgement, among seas of strangers. When her ignorance incites conflict between herself and her family, brought to its peak by the sharp indifference of Pete himself, the scene distinctly shifts to the bleak image of a girl aimlessly walking through the streets of New York. The illustration provoked by the title—“a girl of the streets”—is re-imagined in the framing of poverty, a poorness defined not only by a lack of material wealth, but also of a negligence for the danger of class perception.

            In the act of wandering near the conclusion of the novella, the girl’s experience parallels her struggle with poverty. The crowd of people storming the streets, characterized by their interminable qualities and endless procession, though physically close to the girl, remains elusive. Their “atmosphere of pleasure and prosperity” (62) is distinct from her own demeanor; instead, she associates with the few “wet wanderers, in attitudes of chronic dejection” (62), who lack the same feeling of cohesion seen in the former group. These wanderers, the poor, are scattered, disconnected, disparate. She is, however, noticed through sneers, glares, and interested stares, though these observers fail to help her. As a nameless face, she is thrust into social scenarios in which she becomes a persona of prostitution—the “Mary” acquaintance of a businessman, the mistaken clever girl insinuating discussion with a man with a derby hat, the recipient of a drunken man’s raving rants claiming “’I ain’ ga no money’” (64), the rejected date of a saloon-goer—and, ultimately, a stranger. Such wandering is demonstrative of her poor condition, without a real home, any financial resources, or prospects of a future. In the “blackness of the final block” (64), a recognition that social mobility is unlikely, the wandering girl makes a closing observation, resonating with the plight of the poor: “the varied sounds of life, made joyous by distance and seeming unapproachableness, came faintly and died away to a silence” (65).

Stephen Crane, "Maggie: A Girl of the Streets"

            In exploring how realism in fiction can engender sympathy, one cannot help but discern where the reader’s sympathy lies for the characters in Maggie. Furthermore, the distance maintained between the readers and the action of the novel promotes a specific type of sympathy, one that does not involve establishing a solution, but rather a sympathy that leans toward voyeurism. Crane constructs his piece in such a way that allows the reader to glimpse, commiserate with, and understand the plight of the lower class while maintaining the distinction between “us” and “them.”

            Maggie, the title character of the novel, demands readerly sympathy. As she is introduced, as “a small ragged girl [dragging] a red, bawling infant” (7), Maggie’s character is illustrated in relief to the foreground of her brother, Jimmie; it is this quiet, obedient, submissive presence that draws the focus, and consequently, the compassion, of the reader. Her appearance, a blossoming “rare and wonderful production… a pretty girl” (18), parallels to her timid, compliant personality; Maggie becomes an anatomization of goodness. Her one flaw—a naiveté of perspective—is tragic simply because the character herself is unconscious of this one vice. As she misinterprets the mannerisms and characteristics of a young man, Pete, to be those of “a man who had a correct sense of his personal superiority” (20), the naïve girl falls in love with her misconception. Bind to reality—Pete’s evident disinterest in Maggie as a person, his crude remarks, and heavily accented speech marking a lower class—she continues to think of him as both “elegant and graceful” (20), enchanted with ideas of high class. Such fascination with upward mobility, an interest grounded in illusion, incites the conflict to propel the plot. The situation, deriving from Maggie’s ignorant pursuit of Pete and leading to the ultimate destruction of already-weak familial bonds, evokes sympathy from an audience whose investment in the suffering of immigrants seeking mere survival never leaves the pages.

            Realism, a writing style highlighting the imperfect aspects of life through representation, allows Crane to separate the subject from the reader, to use the novel as a lens through which to critique—but not change—the dark underbelly of American society. The reader’s sympathy for Maggie is dependent upon such distance; to empathize, to experience the novel through the eyes of the wandering, discomforted girl, would drastically shift the end-result, the audience’s response to this pictorial profile of low-class, tenement life. Stephen Crane’s illustration of the bleak portrait of immigrant life is driven by a fascination with the “dark world.” However, such perspective inevitably imprints itself upon the reader; Maggie then becomes an image of the misfortune of class stratification, rather than a personal account that commands closer attention.