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The juxtaposition and conflict between perception and reality is the underlying theme that supports the narrative of “The Lady in the Looking Glass.” The story uses the character of Isabella to move through changing perceptions granted by the looking glass’s reflection. The constant shift of perception highlights the subjective nature of reality and the human experience.
The looking glass situated in Isabella Tyson’s drawing room offers a very particular vantage point: The narrator (and reader) can see her drawing room and a slice of her house and garden as reflected in the mirror. These physical attributes are discussed by the narrator as a means to understand who Isabella is. Not only that; the narrator engages with the extent to which these external things can be expressive of her as a person. Her extravagantly decorated home offers the conclusion that she is well traveled and rich, her garden and the fact that she is walking leisurely through it suggests that she is outside snipping flowers. The locked drawers represent the sense that Isabella herself is locked away, and that the letters, both the ones under lock and key and the ones delivered by the postman, hold inner truths about Isabella and life itself.
Through the story, the line between perception and reality becomes increasingly challenged. In the final passage, the story offers up what may be perceived as the “reality” of Isabella: “Here was the woman herself. She stood naked in that pitiless light. And there was nothing. Isabella was perfectly empty” (9). The woman “herself” is her physical exterior, fixed and inescapable, and so different from the possibilities of her inner life explored before. The disappointment and reductiveness of the final passage paradoxically highlight the untethered richness of Isabella as an “inner” person when freed from her “outer person.” Further, the language suggests that “inner” and “outer” perceptions or realities feel incompatible in the moment of mental adjustment between them: The physical view of Isabella makes her “empty” and “nothing,” although the story has also shown her to have a rich inner life.
“The Lady in the Looking glass” focuses on the outside and inside of Isabella, examining notions of femininity and the female experience. This intersects with the story’s interest in the distinction between the public and private self, challenging traditional expectations of female behavior and conventional views of older women. This theme is also expressive of Woolf’s interest in writing about the female experience in innovative ways that escape from the predominance of the male view and objectification of women in earlier English literature.
The looking glass is linked to the dangers of personal revelation in both the opening and the ending, juxtaposing the meanings of the repeated phrase once the interposed story has altered the meaning and type of revelation suggested. At first, the warning “people should not leave looking glasses hanging in their rooms” reads as a dryly humorous opening line, expressive of the fact that they may reveal more to others than intended, like a “hideous crime” (1). This line sets up the expectation that the narrator will view the “Lady in the Looking glass” doing something compromising to her reputation. The story leans in to this with the sensual imagery of paragraphs 1-3, the still, breathy dimness of the room, the exotic luxury of the furnishings, and the lyrical descriptions of flowers. Contrary to this, however, nothing in fact happens in the story in terms of plot and its subject is overtly innocent and philosophical. The sense of illicit behavior is instead generated by the narrator of the story, who impertinently conjectures about Isabella’s private life, whose imaginings mirror the “audacity” of reading her letters. The language becomes suggestive of sexual as well as emotional boundary-crossing: The narrator asserts that she will “no longer escape” and that they wish to “prize her open,” to “penetrate a little further” and “fasten her down” (4). Rather than revealing private misconduct on Isabella’s part, the story is expressive of a prurience on the part of the narrator that, framed as the thoughts of someone sitting on her sofa, disturb expectations around the niceties of polite behavior as a guest in someone’s home. The narrative seems to ask what right anyone has in seeking to view, define, or describe a woman.
Instead of revealing a shocking inner truth, the mirror finally reveals a shocking outer truth: Isabella is an old and vulnerable mortal woman. The story has earlier revealed that she is in later middle age, but her physical appearance is not described. Instead, the narrative relies on the richness of her inner life, and the infinite possibilities of that life, in experience, perception, or recollection, by herself or others. The fact that she is outside the mirror’s view enables the narrative to see her as freed from her physical appearance. When she comes into view, it “made one start” (8), in a readjustment from the inner world of thoughts, feelings and imaginings to the outer world of her physical reality. The description of Isabella in the mirror, “naked,” “old and angular,” “wrinkled,” echoes the “cruelty” of the earlier hypothesized comparison between her as a “woman of flesh-and-blood of fifty-five or sixty” to a flower, in that the comparisons “come like the convolvulus itself trembling between one’s eyes and the truth” (4). The story itself has “come between,” and in doing so has set up a shocking juxtaposition of the Isabella of the first eight paragraphs and the Isabella of the ninth. The shock of this challenges conventional perceptions of women as physical objects and older women as ugly or redundant. A traditional narrative or society, the text suggests, might see Isabella as a lonely, old, wrinkled woman, but the narrative has described her life and possessions with vibrancy and sensuality and shown her to be remarkable and full of life. It is this juxtaposition that highlights the reductive and judgmental view of older women in society.
The “Lady in the Looking glass” also challenges literary conventions around the male gaze and objectification by creating a narrative of Isabella’s inner identity that is so much greater than her external appearance. By repeatedly asking how Isabella can be known, the narrative explodes the notion that women in literature—or life—are superficial and valuable only to the extent that they are seen by, support, or are useful to men. Indeed, as a “spinster,” Isabella’s rich and interesting life has been independent of this traditional supportive role. Her identity is viewed more clearly when outside the looking glass than when captured in it, and the story’s focus on the inner self belies the potentially sexist premise of the title: “The Lady in the Looking glass” might well suggest a focus on physicality, expressive of women’s supposed vanity and superficiality. Instead of vanity, the mirror reveals age and regret, but dignified by the story’s exploration of a real and rounded woman and a well-lived life.
Though intensely interested in subjective experience, Modernism was in many ways skeptical of the idea of the individual. For writers like Woolf, humans were not rational, straightforward agents acting in unified and knowable ways but rather fragmented collections of experiences and impressions; this fleeting and elusive quality of the self was part of what narrative techniques like stream of consciousness sought to capture. “The Lady in the Looking glass” explores this idea of the unstable self through both Isabella and the narrator.
“The Lady in the Looking glass” focuses entirely on the narrator’s perception of Isabella Tyson, placing great value on understanding her inner life. Whether or not those efforts are successful, the thoughts and feelings the narrator assigns to Isabella are notable for their changefulness. The narrator imagines her cataloguing mundane chores and then, just a few sentences later, contemplating her own mortality. The longest and most explicit foray into Isabella’s thoughts is even more telling:
Without making any thought precise—for she was one of those reticent people whose minds hold their thoughts enmeshed in clouds of silence—she was filled with thoughts. Her mind was like her room, in which lights advanced and retreated, came pirouetting and stepping delicately, spread their tails, pecked their way; and then her whole being was suffused, like the room again, with a cloud of some profound knowledge, some unspoken regret, and then she was full of locked drawers, stuffed with letters, like her cabinets (8).
Isabella here seems only half aware of her own thoughts, which surface and vanish without order or clear temporality. Consciousness in this passage is not singular or static but multifaceted and shifting.
The identity and depiction of the narrator push this idea even further. Most of the story appears to unfold in the third person, but the constant references to how “one” experiences the scene invite a closer than usual identification between reader and narrator because the pronoun usually refers to a generic person—i.e., one whose identity encompasses any and all readers. Yet the narrator also makes specific claims about how “one” thinks and feels, blurring the line between this generic person and an individual person. To further complicate matters, the narrative at one point shifts into the first-person plural: “Sometimes it seemed as if they [Isabella’s possessions] knew more about her than we, who sat on them, wrote at them, and trod on them so carefully, were allowed to know” (4). The narrator is apparently not one person but several, though they speak as a group. These choices challenge not just the cohesion of the self but its very existence as a discrete entity separate from other people.
Some Modernist works present the instability of the self as a problem or an unfortunate reality. However, that is not what emerges from “The Lady in the Looking Glass.” In its association with movement, fluidity, and flux, the self parallels Woolf’s description of life itself as “evanescen[t].” Though briefly saddened by the thought of dying, Isabella (or the narrator’s imagined Isabella) takes comfort in the fact that she will survive in changed form: “[I]f fall she must, it was to lie on the earth and moulder sweetly into the roots of violets” (8). The alternative to this is the “immortality” the mirror offers, but this immortality comes at the cost of the full richness of the self; when Isabella appears before the mirror, all sense of complexity and change evaporate, and she exists as a single, flat image.
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By Virginia Woolf