The death of Ophelia was a particularly popular subject in 19th Century Britain[1], and Waterhouse himself realised three versions of it. The character of Ophelia was especially dear to Victorians because she embodied, and at the same time validated with literary ancestry, the melancholic figure of the madwoman described by various critics[2] as a new, female figure of madness, created to substitute its more brutish and violent male counterpart[3]. Yet, even for a picture stemmed from these cultural conventions, at a first glance the painting shows significantly little signs of Ophelia’s insanity. This was pointed out by critics of the time[4], who possibly expected a more sentimental portraiture such as the one presented by Richard Redgrave[5]. Indeed Waterhouse’s Ophelia, in her composed posture, seems dispassionate, and the action she’s performing, adorning her hair with flowers, is strongly cultured and connected to social constructions to which madness should make her indifferent.
In fact the painting creates a defined visual contrast between domestic and natural, cultured and primitive, and leaves Ophelia looking positively out of place. In her bejewelled gown she appears as if she should be sitting in a patio or garden, rather than a humid swamp. The natural scene surrounding her is decadent and rather menacing; in the sunless space of the brook, Nature appears as a looming entity, and a maleficent one at that: the wild roses at her feet entangle and rip her gown at the hem and the bended reeds in the centre already foretell her fall. The flowers she has plucked to adorn herself with are no less nefarious than the rest of the flora: the poppy in her hair symbolises death and sleep[6], and the daisies, symbol of innocence, lay dishevelled in her lap. Background to a large part of the image, the dark water of the brook lurks from below its cover of water lilies, its surface concealed by the wide, thick leaves, making the pond look increasingly like a water tomb, as one can imagine the large leafs closing on top of the sinking Ophelia, forbidding her from reaching for air.
In such an obviously unfavourable scene, Ophelia’s restful and careless behaviour stands out even more. As aforementioned, this could be, and has been, interpreted as a poor psychological representation by the artist; however, in my opinion Waterhouse simply produced an image of insanity more in line with the one of his times, which I discussed in my opening. Ophelia’s madness, a female madness, is passive and is therefore expressed by defect, that is, in her defecting to behave correctly. Her sole being alone outdoors -not in a garden or farm field, but in the uncultivated woods-, without chaperone nor security (her father dead, her brother away, her betrothed lost) could be seen as both recklessness and disregarding of social norms, which Showalter indicated as more than enough for a woman to be labelled insane in this period[7]. Ophelia does not belong in the wilderness, as a lady does not belong away from the household in the first place. She is there because she is insane, and she is insane because she is there: her moving death can only reinforce the educational lesson that such behaviour in a young woman could only lead to disaster.
In the original text, Shakespeare had designed Ophelia as a far more unruly figure, with distinct associations with the arcane figure of the mermaid; and Waterhouse must had seen John Everett Millais‘ sensational version of the subject, as well as others’, which openly explored these associations and often made her one with nature. His Ophelia however is more similar to a castle-inhabitant, beguiling Guinevere rather than a spirit of nature. The only link between Waterhouse’s Ophelia and the feral marine creature is in a very strong similarity of pose with another painting he was working on in the period, depicting a mermaid[8]. Unlike Ophelia though, the mermaid was given by Waterhouse a steady, self-assured gaze that makes her look perfectly in control of the environment. As Ruth Owen observes, “unlike the mermaids, Ophelia has no agency, but floats passively away”[9]. It is possible that to Waterhouse the only women who could thrive away from domesticity would have to be monsters.
– Costanza Bergo
[1] Kimberley Rhodes, Ophelia and Victorian Visual Culture: Representing Body Politics in the 19th Century (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), 4.
[2] Jane E. Kromm, ‘The Feminization of Madness in Visual Representation’, Feminist Studies, Vol. 20, No. 3 (Autumn, 1994): 507-535; Elaine Showalter, ‘Victorian Women and Insanity’, Victorian Studies, Vol. 23, No. 2 (Winter, 1980): 157-181; Lisa Appignanesi, Mad, Bad and Sad: A History of Women and the Mind Doctors from 1800 to the Present (London: Virago 2009), 50.
[3] Kromm, ‘The Feminization of Madness in Visual Representation’, 507-510.
[4] Peter Trippi, John Waterhouse (London: Phaidon, 2005), 135.
[5] Richard Redgrave, Ophelia Weaving her Garlands, 1842, V&A Museum, London.
[6] Debra Mancoff, The Pre Raphaelite Language of Flowers (London: Prestel, 2012), 20.
[7] Elaine Showalter, ‘Victorian Women and Insanity’, Victorian Studies, Vol. 23, No. 2 (Winter, 1980): 180.
[8] Rhodes, Ophelia and Victorian Visual Culture, 118-119.
[9] Ruth J. Owen, ‘Voicing the Drowned Girl: Poems by Hilde Domin, Ulla Hahn, Sarah Kirsch, and Barbara Köhler in the German Tradition of Representing Ophelia’, The Modern Language Review, Vol. 102, No. 3 (Jul., 2007): 782.
Victorian Beauty: The Aesthetic Movement 