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W1514809715 abstract "Herman Melville's representation of disabled bodies in The Confidence-Man delineates a nineteenth-century economics of anatomy, charity, and social role. Jacksonian America provided an important venue for practices that were founded on empirical observation: craniometry, phrenology, palmistry, psychology, and physiognomy. All these sciences of the surface named external body features as reliable signs by which the identity of a person could be fixed and known. While The Confidence-Man does not make an overt political critique on behalf of disabled people as a marginalized group, it does introduce disability, not only as a narrative device, but also as a disruption of rationales of national personhood and morality. Because disability came to be construed as a tragic embodiment that extracted individuals from productive membership in a capitalist economy, people with physical and cognitive differences found themselves controlled by new terms reflecting the emergent concepts of modern charity inherent in the industrial U.S. In this period, ideas about disabled people changed fairly drastically: their livelihood and integration were no longer perceived as a familial and community issue, and they were to be officially classified by techniques adopted from objectifying taxonomies of the body. Named as members of a deficient population, disabled bodies were to be managed by private organizations as well as state and federal agencies. This historical transition marks a critical moment in American approaches to disability issues and disabled people, and it serves as a context for Melville's portrayal of the detection strategies employed in the oversight of charity. By the middle of the nineteenth century, practices of community support for poverty and the classification of bodily unsuitability for labor gave way to intrusive managerial attitudes toward diverse human physicalities. Whereas the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries tended to approach human differences from the religious standpoint of the “strong” taking care of the “weak,” the nineteenth century approached issues of dependency as a disservice to a nation that must invest in its manifest destiny. In this respect, U.S. responses to physical and cognitive impairments shifted from a relatively benign formula, the interdependency of human lives in one's immediate community, to one of moral and community judgment.11 In The Discovery of the Asylum, David Rothman argues that debates about public responsibility for those who were ill or incapacitated during the seventeenth and eighteenth century largely revolved around questions of looking out for one's own members. Disability and poverty did not turn one into a pariah in need of outcasting. Families and communities were expected to provide support for those who could not support themselves. Most poverty discussions developed around the definition of membership in order to release communities from having to support vagrants and paupers who might migrate into the settlement. See David J. Rothman, The Discovery of the Asylum: Social Order and Disorder in the New Republic (Boston: Little Brown, 1971); Michael Katz, In the Shadow of the Poorhouse: A Social History of Welfare in America (New York: Basic Books, 1986). Those classified as economically dependent — because they could not participate in rigid social roles without significant revision to modes of work, habitat, and socialization rituals — became pariahs. Families were held culpable for the unpreparedness of their members for vigorous national participation. Furthermore, charity discourses of this period often held out faulty lifestyles as the source of impairments, therefore finding both families and individuals culpable for bodily and cognitive attributes considered deviant. Melville's entrance into this debate in The Confidence-Man hinges on four distinct critiques relevant to the cultural production of disabled bodies: 1) by conflating charity and confidence exchanges as economic activities with moral repercussions; 2) as a critique of charity systems that excluded recipients from participating as national citizens; 3) as an exposé of capitalist altruism that markets products and services through opportune references to the alleviation of human suffering; and 4) as a narrative device that can unmoor fixed patterns of belief and roles. As the overarching theory that connects these critiques, our analysis uses Michel Serres's theory of parasitic economies as an exposé of inequitable power relations at work in nineteenth century U.S. capitalism. Serres's inversion of the host/guest relationship provides a context for comprehending Melville's own tactical inversions of giver and receiver, con game and gift, donor and recipient. The Confidence-Man wages warfare on physiognomy for presuming, on behalf of scientific and national knowledge, the reliability of bodily appearances as a means to evaluate persons. In doing so, Melville's narrative returns to a critique of the cultural practices that Ishmael had dismissed in Moby-Dick as “semi-sciences” and “passing fables”22 In “‘Too Much of a Cripple,’” David Mitchell argues that Ishmael aborted efforts to apply the sciences of physiognomy and phrenology to the interpretation of the whale. After demonstrating that these sciences of the visible have nothing to contribute to the understanding of the whale, Ishmael brushes them off as “semi-sciences” (Moby-Dick 345) that “like every other human science is but a passing fable” (347). Melville's return to these subjects in The Confidence-Man helps to demonstrate the influence such practices continued to have on nineteenth century interpretive methods. Because disabled people were viewed as possessing bodily and cognitive deviances that expressed the corruption of their souls, they were particularly at risk for dehumanizing treatment produced by the analysis of appearances. See David Mitchell, “Too Much of a Cripple: Ahab, Dire Bodies, and the Language of Prosthesis in Moby-Dick,”Leviathan 1.1 (1999): 5-22. in order to interrogate the use of assessments of physicality in making moral appraisals and economic decisions. Melville takes up these critiques of visual assessment in order to foreground the deceptions of bodies, and in order to evaluate capitalist charity exchanges that not only reimburse, but also produce socially inequitable bodies. As a result, The Confidence-Man interrogates the effort to make disability a sign of human depravity. It does so by depicting non-eligible body anatomies as the impetus for a conspicuous “charity”—one that does not undo, but sustains, the self-interested goals of capital exchange. In this case, audiences pay for their status by donating to the most severely performed disability. Such a practice exemplifies what historian Paul Longmore (1997) defines as conspicuous contribution: a cultural ritual where the “economically able” garishly donate in public venues to help disabled people and bolster their own celebrity. Within these economic rituals, “disability” itself becomes a matter of performed severity making disability a spectacle of competing body deficiencies. In order to capture the array of interrelated beliefs that disability spawns, Melville begins with a rarity in narrative literature: an array of disabled characters occupying a shared social (and narrative) space. The unusual nature of such a public gathering causes the man in the ruby-colored velvet vest to exclaim, “You – pish! Why will the captain suffer these begging fellows on board?” (NN CM 28). An assemblage of multiply disabled bodies provides the opportunity to represent disability in a less allegorical manner than a reader finds with characters such as the prostheticized Ahab or the stammering Billy Budd. The staging of such a multiplicity also provides an unprecedented moment where marked and disqualifying human features demand attention in the narrative in a way that makes disability integral to social interpretation. Usually, as we show in Narrative Prosthesis, the story of disability occurs with respect to a single character identified by physical or cognitive differences that mark him/her as an object in need of narrative attention—a kind of discursive rehabilitation. Disability is consistently explored as a story of rare exception. By approaching disability as a formula—one exceptional character at a time—literature reinforces our sense of disability as an isolated bodily deficiency or personal misfortune. The result of cordoning off disability undermines the social urgency of inclusion and social justice with respect to disabled people as a group. Still, modern plot formulas have readers steadily imbibe disability stories one character at a time. Disability often serves merely as a device of characterization, with physical and cognitive idiosyncrasy allowing a character to stand out against an otherwise anonymous backdrop of homogeneous, non-disabled bodies. This representational tradition of disability militates against the idea that physical and cognitive differences persist in human communities and across social periods. Without access to representations of bodies as variable and vulnerable, disability representation obscures the necessary demand that communities can and do accommodate multiplicity in the body politic. Disability can become fixed to a single narrative function–that of the avenger, or the flip-side of the pathetic and deserving recipient of charity. Narrative disabilities, with the death or cure of the literary “patient,” allow audiences to participate in the illusion of social acceptance without contemplating the material and social dynamics by which some have been made to occupy bodies marked as excessive–bodies recognized as more suitable for fiction than social policy. In staging a convention of cripples aboard the Fidèle, The Confidence-Man not only diverges from the traditional portrayal of disability singularity but also exposes the dependency of the nation on those defined as biologically inferior. Disabled people represent prototypical non-producers in exchange economies because the terms of their social participation often exceed a system's willingness to accommodate them. Disabled people are parasitical, or so runs the narrative of Capitalism, and their efforts at subsistence within an exchange-based system at least offers those recognized as productive participants (the benefactor class) leverage in the social performance of beneficence. The Confidence-Man unveils disability's centrality to achieving this goal by examining the degree to which bodies marked as deviant provide an opportunity to solidify other social actors' beliefs in their own moral goodness and proximity to normative ideals. In other words, the benefactor (productive) classes rely on those defined as “non-productive” to secure their own social value. Through this inversion of social reliances, Melville's tract situates the confidence game as that which unveils dependency as a reversible game. To demonstrate dependency as a fluctuating social investment, two discourses compete for attention in The Confidence-Man: charity and confidence. The opening chapter situates both terms within literal proximity to anticipate the narrative's argument about their intertwined history. As the passengers gather into various cliques on deck, a “Deaf-Mute in cream-colors” holds up a chalkboard confidently proclaiming charity as a universal good. At the same time a barber opens shop by posting a shingle that declares “No Trust” (the flip side of confidence) to discourage potential clients seeking a haircut on credit. Both signs square off as competing appeals to the moral and economic instincts of the passengers aboard the Fidèle. Yet, while the staging of these two discourses seems antithetical — the former appeals to a biblical good while the latter refuses all faith in the guarantee of future payment — both signs espouse an absolutist principle for their respective audiences. According to the Deaf-Mute's sign, Charity is always a positive virtue while the barber's capitalist instincts refuse trust in every case. An either/or interpretive system is inaugurated and the story sets out to test both principles as an experiment in the validity of American faith in absolutes. To draw the terms of charity and confidence into a shared lineage with one another, the third-person narrator points out that the assembled crowd receives each claim in markedly distinct ways. While the Deaf-Mute is jostled and ignored by those passing him and his multiple disabilities heighten the perception of his “singularity, if not lunacy” (NN CM 5), the barber's equally “mute” posting elicits no such suspicion. In fact, as the narrator explains, the barber's “illuminated pasteboard sign” (an intimation of Ahab's reference to the artificiality of pasteboard masks) provokes no “corresponding derision or surprise, much less indignation; and still less, to all appearances, did it gain for the inscriber the repute of being a simpleton” (NN CM 5). By virtue of this contrast, Melville places the reader between incommensurable universes where parallel acts fail to elicit equivalent responses. The Deaf-Mute's body, not his references to charity, distance him from the mainstream because disability marks one as excessively deviant. The passengers aboard the Fidèle note both signs and determine that one is unwelcome while sloughing off the other as routine. The Deaf-Mute's incursion provokes alarm and an open effort to disdain his textual declarations on behalf of charity, while the barber's act is received as participating in the normal course of economic affairs. Each message could be dismissed as “self interested”: the Capitalist in the guise of the barber provides a desirable service for his own economic remuneration, while the Deaf-Mute may be making claims on behalf of charity to redress his personal destitution (although this motive is never literally solidified in the opening chapters). Yet only the Deaf-Mute's message is greeted with suspicion. The horror of the revelation that the “man in cream-colours” is “not only dumb but also deaf” transforms him into an object to be shunned. His appearance overrides the content of his message as the crowd realizes that he is an object of charity and not just an espouser of its virtues: “Meanwhile, he with the slate continued moving slowly up and down, not without causing some stares to change into jeers, and some jeers into pushes, and some pushes into punches” (NN CM 6). Regardless of the content—one could easily become suspicious of a sign such as “No Trust” as product of commercial distrust in a capitalist system—the disabled body plays a key role in the reception of the message, and thus, the prime value of charity is excluded while the prohibition on credit makes no impact upon topside economic relations. Despite their antithetical receptions both declarations appeal to modes of faith. Neither can secure empirical evidence of their intrinsic value: a divine deity can be proven to exist no more than capital can assert its basis in anything other than symbolic value. This play of surfaces — Charity chalkboard and “No Trust” sign — establishes a key conflict that continues for the remainder of Melville's story. The two messages represent a squaring off of religious and economic systems. Yet, both charity and credit depend upon a future tense of reimbursement for one's effort — in relation to charity the bestower will be rewarded in the afterlife while credit (or trust) will be paid back at a later date for a service delivered in the present. These parallels establish credit and charity as related forces within a market economy, and connect the two terms within a shared cultural genealogy. Their interchange marks the point at which moral and economic systems converge and bolster each other. Not only does the disabled body draw out suspicions about calls to charity, it also spawns social speculation as to the meanings ascribed to bodily differences. Once the Deaf-Mute has retired on a vacant ladder to take a nap, the crowd above him begins to speculate on the meaning of his identity. From innocence to monstrosity each passenger takes his/her turn at imposing a definition on the Deaf-Mute as a figure of difference. The responses run the full circuit of cultural possibilities for interpreting the disabled body: “ODD FISH!”“Who can he be?”“Uncommon countenance.”“Green prophet from Utah.”“Humbug!”“Singular innocence.”“Means something.”“Spirit-rapper.”“Moon-calf.”“Piteous” (NN CM 7). What bolsters each contention is a belief that deafness and muteness “means something.” The figure's differences — although largely invisible in a physical sense — prompt efforts to interpret a metaphysical principle informing disabled identity. Like the later stories of racial difference involving the Native American termagant Goneril and John Mooredock's disquisitions on Indian-hating, disability signals something amiss in the universe, and the on-lookers instinctively set about the process of getting-to-the-bottom of the mystery. The “mystery” of disability is never just a question of how divergent bodies come to be; there is always an implication of the entire community in the attribution of difference (Stiker 40), as if a deviance in the accepted order of things implies that society must master difference in order to defuse some harbinger of things to come. Efforts to define the meaning of the Deaf-Mute's body prove entirely elusive. While many participate in the game of making his differences cohere in a stable source, no consensus is reached. Instead, the crowd's interpretations collide in an orchestrated multiplicity of beliefs, and the effort to control difference is unrealized. The amateur physiognomists seize the opportunity to ply their skills,33 By approaching disability as a cultural effort to fix a field of sliding signifiers into an exclusively derogatory identity, we glimpse The Confidence-Man's overarching rhetorical strategy. Just as the confidence game can be played from multiple social vantage points–corporate executive, paralyzed black pauper, vacationing stockbroker, one-legged customs officer, snake-oil salesman, and giant—the body's myriad meanings also prove indeterminate. Efforts to identify an accord between physical presentation and internal motivation place Melville's work squarely within the context of nineteenth-century physiognomic thinking. Although physiognomy has a lengthy social history, it came to be consolidated as an empirical science in the late eighteenth century following the publication of Swiss theologian Johann Caspar Lavater's efforts to catalogue facial countenances into reliable personality types. For Lavater, physical features functioned as symptomatic expressions of internal dispositions, and thus, the external body could be orchestrated into a means of grasping the otherwise intangible truth of an individual's moral character. As a technique of interpretation developed prior to the advent of instruments that allowed medical practitioners to “see” into the body (such as the stethoscope, microscope, and x-ray), physiognomy promoted the body as a reliable textual system to be “read” by trained professionals and amateurs alike. and thereby devise a body hierarchy — one that the social construction of disability inaugurates — a form of human objectification based on the interpretation of physical and sensory differences. The Deaf-Mute may be monstrous, naïve, innocent, pitiable, or a Bible-thumper, but all definitions redound to his disadvantage. Once identified as disabled, the Deaf-Mute's figure is quickly transformed into a foreign intruder within their midst, whose difference threatens to deplete the passengers' wealth and sense of security in their own well being. As the passengers exchange their readings of “the man in cream-colors,” they also solidify their mutual membership in the realm of the normal. The Deaf-Mute's debasement conversely solidifies the crowd's desired proximity to bodily ideals governing questions of social belonging. Thus, while Melville describes the ship's clientele as being a “piebald parliament, an Anacharsis Cloots congress of all kinds of the multiform pilgrim species man” (NN CM 9), disability comprises a degree of difference that cannot be accommodated among even this motley crew. For Melville, the point is not which meaning should be ascribed to the appearance of a disabled body, but rather that the manifestation of disability provokes an interpretive social mechanism into action. The disabled characters are disallowed the cover of anonymity on the ship that, as the narrator explains, is a “boon not often withheld from so humble an applicant as [the Deaf-Mute]” (NN CM 8). The appearance of disability disrupts social relations that might otherwise pass as natural and uncorrupted. Just as in Moby-Dick, when the Pequod's myriad ethnicities, races, and masculine body types cannot integrate Ahab's prostheticized body successfully into its variegated society, The Confidence-Man also holds out disability as an exceptional difference. Yet, whereas Ahab is condemned to a deterministic existence as a “monomaniacal” disabled man, the latter work undertakes an examination of the inassimilable excess that disability represents to a Capitalist order.44 The reasons for this shift in the representation of disability may be accounted for in a variety of ways; but biographers have remarked upon the “serious illness” that Melville experienced between the writing of Moby-Dick and The Confidence-Man. His back problems worsened and he endured a debilitating bout of sciatica in 1855, his eyesight grew increasingly untrustworthy, and he was bedridden for a significant period as a result. It was during this time that Melville's family also began to worry about his sanity. Yet, while critics have attempted to attribute the dark vision of The Confidence-Man to these bodily “afflictions,” we argue that Melville's awareness of his body allowed him to interrogate his own ideas of ability. The sea change that marks the time between 1850 and 1857 placed disability as a maligned social identity on a par with race in the author's mind, and thus the story became a vehicle for exploring this new relationship in the way that racial relations would be probed in Moby-Dick. For instance, whereas the ship's passengers condemn the man in cream-colors to the stigmatized fate of a deviant species (“ODD FISH!”) or infantilization (“Singular innocence”), the narrator provides an alternative perspective on his figure: His aspect was at once gentle and jaded, and, from the moment of seating himself, increasing in tired abstraction and dreaminess. Gradually overtaken by slumber, his flaxen head dropped, his whole lamb-like figure relaxed, and, half reclining against the ladder's foot, lay motionless, as some sugar-snow in March, which, softly stealing down over the night, with its white placidity startles the brown farmer peering out from his threshold at daybreak. The contrast between the unexpected snowfall and the farmer's brown face creates a stunning effect. A visual difference may catch one unaware and thus call attention to itself, but such a phenomenon does not have to lead the viewer to lessen its power through a defilement of difference. The narrative provides a model by which we might look at variation as something other than symptomatic of disgrace or the need to reinvest ourselves with the superiority gained by distance from the appearance of an unexpected deviation. Consequently, rather than allow popular discourse to describe the man in cream-colors as pure deficit, Melville transforms the Deaf-Mute from a threat into the mythic incarnation of a “daylight Endymion” (NN CM 7). His menacing qualities are emptied out in this description and the meanings of his differences are inverted into something more akin to a philosopher than a rogue. No longer a pariah, the figure's appearance ushers in an alternative story that allows the reader to re-contextualize the figure in a less objectifying manner. Not that his identity is fixed — as Ellen Samuels points out in this special issue of Leviathan, the Deaf-Mute's donning of cream-colors situates him in a more ambiguous racial and class location than other racially and economically marked characters — but rather that the identity of disability is mobile and can be no longer taken as residing in a static social locale. The Confidence-Man critiques efforts to make the body into a singular signifier of one's humanity. While the “cripples” all come under suspicion in the narrative as either disabled pretenders or human beings soured by their bodily “calamities,” the narrative takes up each derogatory dismissal as an opportunity to destabilize the social construction of disability. When the merchant returns to the subject of Black Guinea's miserable life as evidenced by the “twisted legs” that reduce him to begging, his analysis is exposed as an imposition of his own assumptions rather than a fact of life in a disabled body: “But his companion suggested whether the alleged hardships of that alleged unfortunate might not exist more in the pity of the observer than the experience of the observed” (NN CM 59). The disjunction between the interpretation of life in a disabled body and the variable experience of lived embodiment provides Melville with the wedge necessary to distance the body from its seemingly stable social meanings. While the disabled body continues to be referenced throughout the narrative as proof of a life unworthy of human dignity, the destabilization of signifier and signified continually threatens to unhinge the visible world from its ideological investments in the depravity of disabled lives. As the “gimlet-eyed,” one legged, “dismissed custom-house officer” knows best of all: “Looks are one thing, and facts another” (14). Each opening of the chasm between signifier (pathology) and signified (disabled body) creates more room for The Confidence-Man to perform its interruptive labor upon systems of meaning; a labor that makes the array of cultural signifiers more fluid and less inflexible with respect to their referenced objects. While its early chapters take up the question of the disabled body as a material index of one's social station, most of the Confidence-Man addresses the charity system's collusion with capitalism in supplying stories of benevolence in an exchange-based economy. For Melville, charity exists as an outpost of inequality for disabled people and/or paupers. As a static signifier of human insufficiency, the disabled body served as one of the critical nineteenth-century foundations on which the charity system grounded its interventions for the “needy.” As many social theorists have pointed out, seventeenth- and eighteenth-century U.S. economic systems approached disability as a familial and communal responsibility that did not require segregation from the social order.55 See Douglas Lamar Jones, “The Transformation of the Law of Poverty in Eighteenth-Century Massachusetts” in Law in Colonial Massachusetts, 1630-1900, ed. Frederick S. Allis Jr. (Boston: The Colonial Society of Massachusetts, 1984), 153-190; David J. Rothman, “The Discovery of the Asylum: Social Order and Disorder in the New Republic (Boston: Little Brown, 1971), 319; Walter I. Trattner, From Poor Law to Welfare State: A History of Social Welfare in America, 5th ed. (New York: Basic Books, 1994), 16-31; Conrad Edick Wright, The Transformation of Charity in Postrevolutionary New England (Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1992), 14-23. Historically, disability has served as one social category that qualifies an individual for public assistance (along with old age, sickness, and childhood).66 See Deborah Stone, The Disabled State (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1984), 25. Disabled individuals found themselves exempted from the cultural requirement to work expected of all people during the industrial era. Charity sought to negotiate between a work/need dichotomy by helping to establish standard classifications of those who deserved assistance as opposed to those drawn toward a life of chosen idleness.77 See Alex Dick, “Poverty, Charity, Poetry: The Unproductive Labors of ‘The Old Cumberland Beggar,’”Studies in Romanticism 39.3 (2000): 367; Deborah Stone, The Disabled State (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1984), 54; Joan Waugh, “‘Give This Man Work!’: Josephine Shaw Lowell, the Charity Organization Society of the City of New York, and the Depression of 1893,”Social Science History 25.2 (2001): 225; Brendan Gleeson, “Domestic Space and Disability in Nineteenth-Century Melbourne, Australia,”Journal of Historical Geography 27.2 (2001): 225. The body became a key adjudicator in debates over poor laws in Europe from the sixteenth century onward (Stone 30), for instance, because disability seemed to provide a reliable material basis for membership in the need-based classification system: “The [disability] categories solved the work/need dilemma by limiting alms or relief to precisely the people who could not move around anyway: the acutely ill, the physically and mentally disabled, the very old and the very young” (54). Within such a system, immobility (both biological and culturally imposed) proved critical as a barometer for deciding who could qualify as a deserving beneficiary of charity and other social assistance s" @default.
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W1514809715 title "Masquerades of Impairment: Charity as a Confidence Game" @default.
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