American Literature 72.4 (2000) 721-750
At a critical moment in Charles Brockden Brown’s novel Wieland (1798), Clara Wieland is confronted late at night by Carwin, the mysterious stranger whose appearance in her family circle first disrupted its peace, and then, she believes, destroyed it entirely. Though she has no clear idea how he did it, Clara holds Carwin responsible for the horrors she has recently experienced, including her brother’s ecstatic murder of his wife and four children, and Clara’s rejection by the man she loves, who has come to believe that she was engaged in a degraded sexual affair with Carwin. When she shrieks and collapses at the sight of him, Carwin fearfully demands to know what he has done, admitting only that “‘my actions have possibly effected more than I designed.’” Though her evidence against him is incomplete, Clara continues to insist on Carwin’s culpability:
“Wretch!” I cried when my suffocating emotions would permit me to speak, “the ghosts of my sister and her children, do they not rise to accuse thee? Who was it that blasted the intellects of Wieland? Who was it that urged him to fury, and guided him to murder? Who, but thou and the devil, with whom thou art confederated?”
Commentators have frequently condemned Clara’s apparent “need” to hold Carwin responsible for Wieland’s violence. Her persistence in the belief that “what his agency began, his agency conducted to a close” (266)—even after he explains his ventriloquism and denies using it to “prompt” (225) Wieland to murder—is seen by Norman Grabo as evidence of Clara’s mental instability and by Toni O’Shaughnessy as proof that Clara cannot accept either her own implication in her brother’s subsequent suicide or the existence of multiple and ambiguous causation in general. Andrew Scheiber argues that Clara “displac[es] the blame onto outside elements—namely, Carwin,” out of a need to deny the truth she “has intuitively known all along, but has been loath to admit to herself or others”: that the brother on whom she depends is really “anything but benign or protective.” On a larger interpretive scale, Michael Bell insists that Wieland’s delusions are produced by his own imagination, and that they represent contemporary fears about the dangers of fiction, while Shirley Samuels argues that Wieland “contains a family destroyed from within, though agency is ascribed to outside forces,” and thus the new American “family-republic” is endangered by its own inner potential for destruction. Turning these arguments around, I suggest that it is the critics who need to deny Carwin’s agency, because to admit it would destroy the force of interpretations that depend on Wieland’s violence having been produced solely from within his own damaged mind. When Michael Gilmore declares that Carwin “acknowledges his misconduct, but, as he correctly insists, he has committed no crime punishable by human law,” he is wrong about the law, and consequently, like the other critics named above, wrong about the novel.
For Clara’s belief in Carwin’s guilt makes her neither a fool nor a self-deluded neurotic. She takes precisely the position about Carwin’s criminal responsibility that a well-instructed jury might have reached at the time. If, as the novel strongly implies, Carwin did exploit Wieland’s propensity toward religious mania, if he “urged him to fury and guided him to murder” in a spirit of reckless curiosity, then he is as guilty of the murders as if he had performed them himself and Wieland is relieved of all legal responsibility on the grounds of insanity. Thus, if Clara’s insistence on Carwin’s responsibility is both reasonable and legally defensible, it begins rather than ends the discussion. As many critics have noted, in Wieland connections between motive and act, intent and consequences, are frequently severed or ambiguous. Psychological states are murky and unknowable; external phenomena are often deceptive and unreliable. Yet the novel insists that actions must be judged and questions of responsibility must not be evaded. Significantly...