Fowles.  ENGL 630: Form & Theory of Fiction

                                                                                                                                                                                 Return to Main Page

Narrators, narrative gap and reader involvement in “The French Lieutenant’s Woman”: Fowles and Pinter, masters of the “hide in plain sight” technique in narrative and film.

A woman scorned by the Victorian populace of a small seaside town periodically roams the myriad labyrinths that borders great expanses of water in search of a lover long departed; a telescoptic man spies from afar, his identity unknown, his presence harbors a voyeuristic inquisitiveness; so begins Fowle’s enigmatic novel of implied deceit and betrayal, where a woman sets a man’s soul on fire, parallels of the insane woman running amuck in the mansions of Rochester setting a man’s bed on fire; symbols of passion are common in both, yet it is Fowles who brings his narratologic nemesis out – “hide in plain sight” – and in a skilful manipulation of narrative technique against the backdrop of fractured and ruptured time has her bare all -- yet shows and tells nothing through her “mind’s eye.”  Other characters within the novel pen Sarah’s tale: moralist Mrs. Poulteney scripts Sarah, instructs and monitors, and then gives her her freedom to play the role; coy Ernestina writes Charles, scrumptiously encourages his advances, and then suddenly turns him loose on a path of self discovery; psychologist Dr. Grogan consults his books of theories, gives examples, and then utters words of cautions to everyone; Charles re-writes Charles and in doing so writes and rewrites Sarah; and among these unified narrative discourses, everyone leaves just about enough room for Fowles to address his reader directly and to make cameo appearances as a “character” in himself[1], to expound, clarify, convolute, and yet make erudite a challenging discourse of narrative possibilities unlimited; in short, there are enough strings dangling freely to accommodate several unique let logical endings to this tale. 

However, the one true ending could only be the first where Charles and Ernestina “lived together” (p. 337), for it is here that the full force of Sarah’s narrators meet; Charles’ life must continue in Ernestina’s script.  For rightly so, this is a work of narratologic excellence employing a convergence of perspectives, unified and compelling, equally mirrored in filmic sequence by none other than notable playwright and screenwriter Harold Pinter.[2]  A careful examination of both book and film would reveal unusual techniques in telling a story from multiple perspectives including divergent narrators, narrative gaps and reader involvement, par excellence.[3]  Indeed, a diligent re-reading of the major scriptwriters in Sarah’s tale would attest to these facts.  

Sarah Woodruff, who is the modus of attraction of diverse narrative possibilities, does little but behaves as expected, having suffered from abandonment by a man who has vanished, yet the one she perhaps seeks as a substitute lies within arm’s length and is no other than Charles Smithson, and who in order to write Sarah’s story must first build upon the narrative of others, and then somehow untangle his own from the stifling webs of a classic Victorian society on the verge of possible imminent moral collapse from Darwinism.  Indeed, Pinter’s screen-script focus diligently on Charles hard at work in his room extracting a fossil from a chunk of solid rock, thus casting him in the light of a man with purpose and determination, contrary, it seems, to the character Fowles depicts in his novel; yet in a sense, preparing his viewers for the man who must make frequent excursions out into the “wilderness” and who later becomes an unwitting pawn in events spiraling out of control; the theme of cultural conflict: Darwinian man and the drama of Victorian sensibilities.[4]  However, in the novel-text, Charles tries every fictive narrative technique in order to unravel these polar opposites as he pens his script, yet at times is unable to separate one untruth from the other.  This indecision is mirrored in the film where Charles-actor becomes caught up in the web of real-life and the world of drama; he is engaged in an affair with the married heroine-actor in real life, while at the same time he actively courts her on stage (and is frequently rebuked) in the film; later, as Charles the actor, caught in “leisure time,” actively courts the heroine, in full view it seems, of her husband. Indeed, Charles’ predicament in the novel lies in what David Richter describes as reader-predicament: “In any text there will be a difference between the authorial audience, which knows that it is reading fiction, and the narrative audience which does not” (p. 102-3).  To great extent Richter’s comments apply most correctly to events on screen!  Pinter, then, has done an excellent adaptation for the opening scenes!

However, where the text is concerned, Charles becomes a reader in the sense that he has to decipher meaning in Sarah’s actions, and the actions of others.  Charles at first begins to see facts as fiction, and later he begins to write his fictional interpretations upon the facts; very soon everything slowly dissolves into a mystic blur.  Unwittingly, Charles remarks upon seeing Sarah and hearing from his fiancée Ernestine of the woman’s past for the first time, “I wish you hadn’t told me the sordid facts.  That’s the trouble with provincial life.  Everyone knows everyone and there is no mystery.  No romance.” (p. 10)[5]  Yet he is so wrong, for much later he does get involved, much to his own surprise, and is actively engaged in  a “spinning out [of] what one did to occupy the vast colonnades of leisure available” (p. 12), and one which ultimately leads to the provocative and psychological tale he pens through his “mind’s eye.”

Everyone has literary aspirations in Fowle’s novel: Ernestina writes down her deepest secrets and then acts them out, but “when she heard Aunt Tranter’s feet on the stairs, hastily put the book [diary] away, and begin to comb her lithe brown hair” (p. 30); moralist Mrs. Poulteney remarks “I have difficulty in writing now.  And Mrs. Fairley reads so poorly.  I should be happy to provide a home for such a person” (p. 24); and of Charles? – he gets the book thrown at him by Ernestina when he falls asleep as she reads: “The poem suddenly becomes a missile, which strikes Charles a glancing blow on the shoulders and lands on the floor behind the sofa” (p. 116).  All of these literary excursions tie in with Chapter 13, which is of great importance, in which Fowles addresses the reader directly when he announces his intentions as narrator:

    In other words, to be free myself, I must give him [Charles], and Tina, and Sarah, even the abominable Mrs. Poulteney, their freedom as well.  There is only one good definition of God: the freedom that allows other freedoms to exist.  And I must conform to that definition.

    The novelist is still a god, since he creates (and not even the most aleatory avant-garde modern novel has managed to expiate his author completely). (p. 97)

This allows Fowles to move in and out, and between, scenes, as he himself becomes a character-observer hovering in the background, casting spells and doubts and generally getting lost himself in the labyrinths he constantly weaves and unweaves.  Seymour Chatman in Story and Discourse astutely points out

Structuralists have recovered this concept [naturalization/verisimilitude] with zest, for it explains the technique by which the reader “fills in” gaps in the text, adjusts events and existents to a coherent whole, even when ordinary life expectations are called into question. (p. 49)

Indeed Fowles aptly fulfills the role of the reader writing and rewriting substantial portions of his narrative as both that of an implied author (mimesis) and also that of communicator from narrator to audience as the mediating narrator (diegesis).  In a sense, there are then, in addition to Charles’ viewpoint in the story, that of the double alter-ego Fowles as omniscient narrator, which further convolutes the narrative discourse.  Or is this at times the “mind’s eye” of Sarah?

How does it all begin?  As Abbott remarks, “our focalizer can be a character within or a narrator without” (p. 67).  Charles reflects “Her look back lasted two or three seconds at most” and yet “Again and again, afterwards, Charles thought of that look as a lance” (p. 10).  Here he sees Sarah for the first time in the opening chapters of the book and is somehow captivated; Sarah catches his eye,  and Mrs. Poulteney soon after hires Sarah to come live with her and serve as a reader and writer, yet it is Sarah who very soon after “commissions” Charles to write her story.  Sarah quickly sets the wheels in motion, and our skilful narrator points to everything but this: Sarah’s role as originator of narrative sequence, and destroyer in the end.  Sarah must first get Mrs Poulteney to commission the early parts of her story, and later when Ernestina has divulged her portion, Sarah must get rid of Ernestina so that Charles can devote his attention entirely to her affairs.  Of course, this is not all obvious, yet it happens; the following sections adequately explain how.

Mrs Poulteney dictates, and Sarah, displaying her willful spirit, does not write, as Sarah “represents this extra-narrative reality as well as the attempt to become unstoried” (Tarbox, p. 89); she leaves that to Charles. Sarah skillfully allows Mrs. Poulteney to write her tale in spoken words, which Sarah acts out; Sarah then becomes a participant in Mrs. Poulteney’s story of Sarah.  Indeed, at the interview with Mrs. Poulteney Sarah is asked a crucial question, yet answers not:

   “What if this…person returns; what then?”

   But again Sarah bowed her head and shook it.  In her increasingly favorable mood Mrs. Poulteney allowed this to be an indication of speechless repentance (p. 37).

In a sense, Mrs. Poulteney dictates to Sarah how to write her tale in her acts of silence; since  Sarah neither agrees nor disagrees, she is so free to disagree as she now has the blessings of her employer. So then it seems, Sarah must wait for the lieutenant to return.  And again when Sarah is observed walking by the sea, Mrs Poulteney instructs, “…walk by the sea; but not always by the sea – “and pray do not stand and stare so” (p. 63) thus again giving Sarah the liberty to do as much as she pleases.  Mrs Poulteney then “writes” Sarah into the Ware Commons where she has a first close encounter with Charles in the “English Garden of Eden…by act [written] of Parliament” (p. 67), where in a sense is the genesis of the tale, and as bestowed by Fowles, “he novelist is still a god, since he creates” (p. 97).

In the third meeting with Sarah Charles addresses her as “Mrs. Poulteney’s secretary” (p. 86), and when Sarah is discovered as having been to Ware Commons, Mrs. Poulteney again instructs,

You will confine your walks to where it is seemly.  Do I make myself clear?

…”Then let me hear no more of this foolishness.  I do this for your own good.”

Sarah murmured, “I know.”  Then, “I thank you, ma’m” (p. 93).

Thus begins the early writing of Sarah’s tale as dictated by Mrs. Poulteney.   Sarah then does not write her tale, but acts out verbal instructions; as if she is not of her own free will, but simply following orders of an employer who in this case gives the orders.  Indeed, as Joanne Klein observes “Pinter, however, relies on her [Mrs. Poulteney’s] interrogation of Sarah to establish Mrs. Poulteney’s acrimonious zeal” (p. 163); zeal, no doubt, for an actress for her own little script.

However, Sarah by now has met with Charles, and sees in him a new writer of her tale, having done with the moralist, she tries her hand with a promising Darwinian.  Yet, for Sarah to proceed with her script, she must obtain a new writer; Mrs. Poulteney has indeed placed Sarah in the “scene.”  Indeed, Sarah makes a bold move in completely writing off Mrs. Poulteney, thus bringing Charles further into the picture, and opening her world to new possibilities.  We read:

For the first time in their relationship, Sarah smiled at Mrs. Poulteney: a very small but knowing, and a telling smile.

…

But Sarah stood aside and indicated the gasping, throat-clutching Mrs. Poulteney, which gave Mrs. Fairley her chance to go to her aid.

“You wicked Jezebel! – you have murdered her!” (p. 245)

Sarah at this point starts to get Charles to script her role by supplying him with bits and pieces of information, most of which he is in a quandary as to whether they are truths or not.  In the next meeting, in Chapter 18, page 145, it is Sarah who follows Charles.  Indeed, Charles has no indication of Sarah’s role in anything; his judgment of her is through the actions of others.  Future meeting times and dates are suggested by Sarah and to whom Charles promises to offer assistance, and the two part.

Immediately after this follows the scene where Ernestina throws the book at Charles, and symbolically drives him off to seek Sarah out in the woods.  He immediately identifies her with Emma Bovary”; rewriting in a sense the book of poems Ernestina has flung at him.  The long conversation between Charles and Sarah in chapter sixteen is an attempt between the two to script the plot based on information supplied by Mrs. Poulteney.  But it must be remembered, Mrs. Poulteney is left almost for dead, and Sarah is no longer a resident writer.  Charles’ first attempt at scripting Sarah’s life is a failure due to inexperience.  He clumsily dismisses Mrs. Poulteney as a scriptwriter for Sarah by suggesting Mrs. Tranter.  Indeed, Charles here makes a quick attempt at substituting Sarah for Ernestina in Mrs. Tranter’s household.

“Mrs. Tranter would like – is most anxious to help you, if you wish to change your situation” (p. 122).

Charles then moves too fast, suggesting that Ernestina and her mother might be able to help Sarah out by making inquiries in London.  What Mieke Bal writes is of great relevance to an understanding of Charles’ irrationality:  “The reader watches with the character’s eyes and will, in principle, will be inclined to accept the vision presented by that character” (quoted in Richter, p. 156).  What then is the vision?  And whose vision?  Clearly, at this moment, both visions are inadequate.  However, Sarah picks her moment and when it seems that Charles has run out of options, she strikes: 

“I have long received a letter.  The gentleman is….

…

“He is married!” (p. 124).

and Sarah’s earlier conversation between Mrs Poulteney,

What if this…person returns; what then?”

   But again Sarah bowed her head and shook it.  In her increasingly favorable mood Mrs. Poulteney allowed this to be an indication of speechless repentance (p. 37).

Yet again, Sarah produces a directive written by someone else.  It is not her saying that the lieutenant is married but a script provided by the lieutenant, which she divulges to Charles.  Here, we get a quick glimpse of Sarah’s first scripter – the French Lieutenant!

At this point Charles serves as a facilitator among several people in the best interest of Sarah, and believes that he might be reading Sarah as a book.  However, these is more to this, as Sarah now sees in Charles an opportunity to test several of her scripts yet unwritten, which are subject to subsequent revisions.  First she is prone to acting a script, of fulfilling the role of a woman scorned and to walk the district, as scripted by the French Lieutenant and handed off to the residents of Lyme – the readers!  Given some freedom in her script by Mrs. Poulteney, and perhaps gaining some confidence, Sarah begins to let Charles now script parts of her own stories, and to start acting them out.  Patricia Hagen astutely points out:

It is in the relationship between Charles and Sarah, however, that the revision theme finds fullest expression, for these characters, though fully realized, also stand as metaphors of author and reader.  Within the world of The French Lieutenant’s Woman, Sarah figures primarily as a type of writer, continually revising – and indeed fictionalizing – her own history and thus writing or constructing her future. (p. 444)

The implied reader is obviously not aware of these manipulations, but might be suspicious.  Indeed, in the sections covered above (chapter16) Charles throws caution by uttering three times at various points “Miss Woodruff!” indicating that either she might be telling him untruths or that she utters things he does not want to hear.  To a great extent, “the portion remaining to be read will revise the meaning of what has already been read” (Lind, quoting Brooks, Class Handout, p. 2).  Charles has no choice but to consult with the authorities!

It is Dr. Grogan in Chapter 19 who now writes part of Sarah’s story; first he makes his observations,[6] consults his references and makes his recommendations.  The two men are described as follows:

The two lords of creation [Charles and Dr. Grogan] had passed back and forth from the subject of Miss Woodruff and rather two-edged metaphors concerning mist to the less ambigious field of palenthology. (p. 159).

Dr. Grogan confirms the validity of Sarah’s association with the French lieutenant and Sarah’s subsequent melancholia by providing Charles with confidential doctor-patient information, which is the script supplied to him by Sarah herself.[7]  Of course, we must remember that Sarah so far has followed her writers to the letter!  The doctor’s information reinforces Charles’ opinions with regards to Sarah, and should he not help her, she might be reduced to institutionalization – or as Sarah herself suggests, becoming a London prostitute.  Indeed, Pinter brings this out in a clever manner when he has Sarah sketching ghoulish figures, and earlier on when Sarah stands by when her dead employer is carried off in a coffin.  Much later, as Charles seek Sarah, he meets with Dr. Grogon in an asylum.[8]  Charles then it seems has no choice but to continue with Sarah’s script based on information supplied by Sarah in a clandestine way.  Pinter captures this moment most beautifully in his film-within-a-film scene as Anna (Sarah) rehearses her role and gets Mike (Charles) to give her an explanation and statistics about the prostitution situation in Victorian times, thus inter-twining the lives of the actors with that of their roles.[9]

It is not until the next meeting do we get a story from Sarah’s viewpoint yet without getting even close to her conscious mind, and where she confesses: “I gave myself to him” (p. 174), and begs Charles that she might be forgiven, and he agrees.  Now, whose script is this?  Indeed, Sarah provides a speech almost a full page in one single paragraph of the entire incident.  Sarah’s explanation is this: “I did it so that people should point at me, should say, there walks the French Lieutenant’s Whore – oh yes, let the word be said” (p. 175-76).  All this is nothing new, but old story; notice here the double emphasis on the word “should” as appears in the text.  The reader is back to the original story as scripted by the French Lieutenant.  Immediately after this speech, we read: “Charles understood very imperfectly [emphasis mine] what she was trying to say in that last long speech” (p. 175).  Indeed, the script is being re-played and revised before Charles’ very eyes!

Charles soon after gets a telegram to visit his uncle at Winsyatt, where he learns of his disinheritance, and on his return he learns that Sarah has gone missing.  This places Charles in a quandary, thus compelling him to come up with a solution – a script!  Suddenly Charles receives a note from the missing Sarah.

I beg you to see me one last time.  I will wait this afternoon and tomorrow morning.  If you do not come, I shall never trouble you again. (p. 205)

Charles quickly finds Sarah again in the woods, but is discovered by Sam and Mary; Charles cautions the pair, and they leave.  What occurs then between Charles and Sarah has echoes of their first meeting. 

She glanced up into his eyes.  The lance was still there, the seeing him whole. (p. 258),

It is then that Sarah leaves, with money from Charles, and promises of more, and with a promise of a governess position.

At this point the story picks up momentum.  Ernestina’s script quickly begins to intersect Charles’ and here is where coy Ernestina writes Charles’ script, scrumptiously encourages his advances, and then suddenly turns him loose on a path of self discovery, almost leading him into the arms of Sarah for good, yet ropes him in at the very last minute.  Indeed, Ernestina writes not one script, but two. 

At the first meeting with Sarah, Charles had come upon her asleep.  Ernestina has no knowledge of the meeting, yet she writes in her diary:  “Wrote a letter to Mama.  Did not see dearest Charles.  Did not go out, tho’ it is very fine.  Did not feel happy” (p. 73).  And in a flashback scene we are privy of a conversation between Charles and Ernestina:

   “Do you think,” he had once said to her, “how disgracefully plebian a name Smithson is,”

   “Ah indeed – if you were only called Lord Brabazon Vanasour Vere de Vere – how much more I should love you!”

   But behind her self-mockery lurked a fear. (p. 79).

The above conversation, though brief, is Ernestina’s attempt first attempt to rewrite Charles; in essence saying to him that he needs another role.  In fact, Ernestina needs Charles but is not happy with Charles.  She later learns of his loss of fortune with his uncle’s remarriage, and laments, and yet again her true color shows.

“Fortunate…!”  Ernestina slipped Charles a scalding little glance.  Aunt Tranter looked in consternation from one face to the other. (p. 200)

Charles soon visits Freeman in Exeter, and what immediately follows is a conversation where Charles is offered a position in Freeman’s manufacturing company.  Ernestina’s letter has preceded Charles’s arrival, and Freeman reads to Charles:

“Perhaps I should read what she says in a postscript.”  He adjusted his silver-rimmed spectacles.  “’If you listen to Charles’ nonsense for one moment, I shall make him elope with me to Paris.”  He looked drily up at Charles.  “It seems we are given no alternative.” (p. 284).

Here, the reader takes it for granted that there is indeed an Ernestina letter, and that Ernestina has the power to make Charles do as she pleases, that is to elope with Ernestina to Paris.  Indeed, Charles seems to be in Ernestina’s control for, as pointed out by Toolan “only the external, literally visible phenomena are reported” that is, the contents of the latter as factual when reported by a legitimate third party.  In the same token, Sarah does play the same game when she reports thast she has received a letter from the French Lieutenant!

Very soon after, Charles writes to Dr. Grogon, and receives a reply to avoid Sarah should she surface.  Charles does so, and: “And so ends the story…Charles and Ernestina did not live happily after; but they lived together….” (p. 337).  Indeed, and just as how Ernestina had willed it.  For sure, this is the one true ending keeping to the combined efforts of the afore-mentioned script writers.

Beginning with chapter 45 the narrator attempts to “corrects” the situation.  Ernestina’s second script takes a different turn, which leads into the 2^nd alternative ending.  Immediately after the first ending, the narrator intervenes:

And the “I,” that entity who found such slickly specious reasons for consigning Sarah to the shadows of oblivion, was not myself; it was merely the personification of a certain massive indifference in things – too hostile for Charles to think of as “God” – that had set its malevolent inertia on the Ernestina side of the scales: that seemed as inexorable onward direction as fixed as that of the train which drew Charles along. (p. 340).

Charles meets with Sarah and spends ninety seconds with her in bed and discovers that she is a virgin.  Charles then runs back to Ernestina and breaks off the marriage.  Ernestina cries,

“My father will drag your name, both your names, through the mire.  You will be spurned and detested by all who know you.  You will be hounded out of England, you will be – “ (p. 383).

And then follows yet the 3^rd ending.

Indeed, these last two endings are all untrue courses for Charles; unscripted and false.  Sarah can be a manipulator, can pull strings, can pretend to be who she is not, yet in the end she must remain the French Lieutenant’s woman, and Charles’ life must continue in Victorian Ernestina’s script.

Bibliography

Abbott, H. Porter. The Cambridge Introduction To Narrative. New York: Cambridge

University Press, 2002.

 Armstrong, Nancy. Fiction in the Age of Photography: The Legacy of British Realism.

Cambridge: Cambridge University press, 1999.

Barnes, Verle.  “Eight Considerations for the Teaching of Film.”  College Composition and

Communication. Vol. 27, No. 1 (February, 1976). 32-35.  JSTOR. March 29, 2007.

Chatman, Seymour. Reading Narrative Fiction. New York: Macmillan Publishing

Company, 1993.

Chatman, Seymour.  “What Novels Can Do That Films Can’t (And Vice Versa).”  Critical

            Inquiry. Vol. 7, No. 1 (Autumn, 1980). 121-140.  JSTOR. April 3, 2007.

Chatman, Seymour. Story and Discourse. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1980.

Cornis-Pope, Marcel.  Hermeneutic Desire and Critical Rewriting.  New York: St. Martin’s

            Press, 1992.

Fell, John.  “Vladimir Propp In Hollywood.” Film Quarterly. Vol. 30, No. 3

(Spring, 1977). 19-28.  JSTOR. March 29, 2007.

Fowles, John.  The French Lieutenant’s Woman.  Boston: Little Brown and Company, 1969

Gale, Steven H. Ed. The Films of Harold Pinter.  Albany: State University of New York Press,

Gale, Steven H.  Harold Pinter: Critical Approaches.  Rutherford: Farleigh Dickinson University

Press, 1986.

Gale, Steven H.  Sharp Cut: Harold Pinter’s Screenplays and the Artistic Process.  Lexington:

The University Press of Kentucky, 2003.

Hagen, Patricia.  “Revision Revisited: Reading (And) The French Lieutenant’s Woman.”

College English. Vol. 53, No. 4 (April, 1991): 439-451.  JSTOR.

May 3, 2007.

Hogopian, John V.  “Bad Faith in The French Lieutenant’s Woman.”

Twentieth Century Literature. Vol. 23, No. 2 (Spring, 1982): 191-201.  JSTOR.

May 3, 2007.

Jackson, Tony E.  “Charles and the hopeful monster.  Twentieth Century Literature.

(Summer, 1997).  Find Articles.com

May 3, 2007.

Johnson, Kenneth.  “The Point of View of the Wandering Camera.”  Cinema Journal. Vol. 32,

No. 2 (Winter, 1993). 121-140.  JSTOR. April 3, 2007.

Klein, Joanne.  Making Pictures: The Pinter Screenplays.  Columbus: Ohio State University

Landrum, David W.  “Rewriting Marx.”  Twentieth Century Literature.  (Spring,

1996).  Find Articles.com

Lind, Norah.  “Class Handout, ENGL630.”

Pinter, Harold.  Collected Screenplays Three.  London: Faber and Faber, 2000.

Rayner, Alice.  “Harold Pinter: Narrative and Presence.” Theatre Journal. Vol. 40, No. 4

(December, 1988): 482-497.  JSTOR. March 29, 2007.

 Richter, David H. Narrative/Theory.  New York: Longman, 1996.

Sarris, Andrew.  “Literature and film.” The Bulletin of the Midwest Modern Language.

Association. Vol. 4, No. 1 (Spring, 1971): 10-15.  JSTOR.

March 29, 2007.

 Sillars, Stuart.  Visualization in Popular Fiction 1860-1960: Graphic narratives, Fictional Images.

London: Routledge, 1995.

Press, 1941.

Silvent, Chris. “Class Handout, ENGL630.” February 13, 2007.

Toolan, Michael.  Narrative a critical linguistic introduction.  London: Routledge, 2001.

 Tarbox, Katherine.  “The French Lieutenant’s Woman and the Evolution of Narrative.”

Twentieth Century Literature. Vol. 42, No. 1 (Spring, 1996): 47-62.  JSTOR.

March 29, 2007.

Warburton, Eileen.  “Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down: Ourika, Cinderella, and The French

Lieutenant’s Woman.”  Twentieth Century Literature. Vol. 42,

No. 1 John Fowles Issue (Spring, 1996). 165-186.  JSTOR. April 3, 2007.