Frederick Fairlie is disturbed by a letter he has just received. — staff artist John McLenan's headnote vignette (composite woodblock engraving) for the twenty-second weekly part of Wilkie Collins's The Woman in White: A Novel, published on 21 April 1860 in Harper's Weekly: A Journal of Civilization, containing both "The Second Epoch. Miss Halcombe's Narrative Continued, July 6th" and the beginning of "The Narrative of Frederick Fairlie, Esq., of Limmeridge House," p. 253; p. 144 in the 1861 volume.

A Mystery: Collins now introduces an unreliable narrator, Frederick Fairlie

As soon as I was left by myself I had a little nap — I really wanted it. When I awoke again I noticed dear Marian’s letter. If I had had the least idea of what it contained I should certainly not have attempted to open it. Being, unfortunately for myself, quite innocent of all suspicion, I read the letter. It immediately upset me for the day.

I am, by nature, one of the most easy-tempered creatures that ever lived — I make allowances for everybody, and I take offence at nothing. But as I have before remarked, there are limits to my endurance. I laid down Marian’s letter, and felt myself — justly felt myself — an injured man.

I am about to make a remark. It is, of course, applicable to the very serious matter now under notice, or I should not allow it to appear in this place.

Nothing, in my opinion, sets the odious selfishness of mankind in such a repulsively vivid light as the treatment, in all classes of society, which the Single people receive at the hands of the Married people. When you have once shown yourself too considerate and self-denying to add a family of your own to an already overcrowded population, you are vindictively marked out by your married friends, who have no similar consideration and no similar self-denial, as the recipient of half their conjugal troubles, and the born friend of all their children. Husbands and wives talk of the cares of matrimony, and bachelors and spinsters bear them. Take my own case. I considerately remain single, and my poor dear brother Philip inconsiderately marries. What does he do when he dies? He leaves his daughter to me. She is a sweet girl — she is also a dreadful responsibility. Why lay her on my shoulders? Because I am bound, in the harmless character of a single man, to relieve my married connections of all their own troubles. I do my best with my brother’s responsibility — I marry my niece, with infinite fuss and difficulty, to the man her father wanted her to marry. She and her husband disagree, and unpleasant consequences follow. What does she do with those consequences? She transfers them to me. Why transfer them to me? Because I am bound, in the harmless character of a single man, to relieve my married connections of all their own troubles. Poor single people! Poor human nature!

It is quite unnecessary to say that Marian’s letter threatened me. Everybody threatens me. All sorts of horrors were to fall on my devoted head if I hesitated to turn Limmeridge House into an asylum for my niece and her misfortunes. I did hesitate, nevertheless.

I have mentioned that my usual course, hitherto, had been to submit to dear Marian, and save noise. But on this occasion, the consequences involved in her extremely inconsiderate proposal were of a nature to make me pause. If I opened Limmeridge House as an asylum to Lady Glyde, what security had I against Sir Percival Glyde’s following her here in a state of violent resentment against me for harbouring his wife? I saw such a perfect labyrinth of troubles involved in this proceeding that I determined to feel my ground, as it were. I wrote, therefore, to dear Marian to beg (as she had no husband to lay claim to her) that she would come here by herself, first, and talk the matter over with me. If she could answer my objections to my own perfect satisfaction, then I assured her that I would receive our sweet Laura with the greatest pleasure, but not otherwise.

I felt, of course, at the time, that this temporising on my part would probably end in bringing Marian here in a state of virtuous indignation, banging doors. But then, the other course of proceeding might end in bringing Sir Percival here in a state of virtuous indignation, banging doors also, and of the two indignations and bangings I preferred Marian’s, because I was used to her. Accordingly I despatched the letter by return of post. It gained me time, at all events — and, oh dear me! what a point that was to begin with.

When I am totally prostrated (did I mention that I was totally prostrated by Marian’s letter?) it always takes me three days to get up again. I was very unreasonable — I expected three days of quiet. Of course I didn’t get them. ["The Second Epoch. The Narrative of Frederick Fairlie, Esq., of Limmeridge House," p. 253; pp. 144-145 in the 1861 volume.]

Commentary: Oh, the inconvenience of having to be a narrator!

Complementing this lengthy reaction to the visit of Laura's maid, Fanny, and Marian's letters is an informative image of the invalid in his dressing-gown. His framed prints lie disregarded on the floor by his easy-chair as he scratches his head and contemplates the outside of the letter addressed to him. He expresses his petulant annoyance at being required to contribute his "Narrative," which must as much as possible contain the dates of the events he records: "I am told to remember dates. Good Heavens! I never did such a thing in my life — how am I to begin now?" (142). However, the artist has shown the narrator beginning with the reception of Marian's letter delivered by hand, rather than showing Frederick Fairlie's trying to compose his account.

In the case of this particular vignette, the moment anticipated is less important than the sequence of events it introduces, with the revelation that Marian's letter to her London lawyer was purloined, and a blank sheet substituted, and that the Countess was probably responsible for drugging Fanny and stealing the letter. And, at the curtain, Fairlie learns that Count Fosco has just arrived at Limmeridge.

Related Material

• McLenan's regular, full-scale illustration for the twenty-second weekly number in serial: "Oh, my God! Am I going to be ill?" for 21 April 1860.
• Fred Walker's poster: The Woman in White for the Olympic's October 1871 adaptation

Bibliography

Collins, Wilkie. The Woman in White: A Novel. New York: Harper & Bros., 1860.

Collins, Wilkie. The Woman in White: A Novel. Harper's Weekly: A Journal of Civilization. Illustrated by John McLenan. Vols. III-IV (16 November 1859 through 8 September 1860).

Collins, Wilkie. The Woman in White. Ed. Maria K. Bachman and Don Richard Cox. Illustrated by Sir John Gilbert and F. A. Fraser. Toronto: Broadview, 2006.

Peters, Catherine. "Chapter Twelve: The Woman in White (1859-1860)." The King of the Inventors: A Life of Wilkie Collins. London: Minerva Press, 1992. Pp. 205-225.

Vann, J. Don. "The Woman in White in All the Year Round, 26 November 1859 — 25 August 1860." Victorian Novels in Serial. New York: MLA, 1985. Pp. 44-46.

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