Woolson decided to end her life when she was fifty-three, almost fifty-four, years of age. Her last year was full of pain and worry about how she would financially and physically manage to maintain her independence. It is easy to see that there was a complex set of reasons she chose to end her life. But was it a “choice”?
I have been reading a lot about suicide in the past couple of weeks. It’s a pretty depressing topic. But I want to find a way to understand Woolson’s death outside of the common perception of her having flung herself from her third-story window in despair over Henry James’s rejection or neglect. (It is amazing how often this version of her death—created by Leon Edel—is repeated, even by those sympathetic to her.) Women’s suicides have historically been understood as motivated by a lover’s abandonment. Think Ophelia or Charlotte Temple. Surely we can do better than this.
A couple of years ago, when my research was well underway but the writing had not yet begun in earnest, a group of Woolson scholars asked me how I would handle the suicide. Why did she do it, they all wanted to know. And so did I. This was, after all, the big question, bigger than anything else. (I might as well call the book “The Life and Death of Constance Fenimore Woolson”—but I won’t.) My answer then was, there were lots of reasons, not just one. Her health was failing, she feared running out of money, and she couldn’t continue to write. She felt as if she had reached a dead end.
The answer, as I write, is still much the same. But the more I look into the issue of suicide, the more complicated it gets. There are interesting parallels, I have found, with the deaths of other writers, especially Virginia Woolf and Ernest Hemingway, who also feared they could write no more and killed themselves when they were older and running out of patience with life. How much does it change our perception of Woolson and her death if we see it in this context, instead of in the context of Henry James?
Perhaps the most interesting parallel I have found, however, is with the suicide of the feminist scholar Carolyn Heilbrun in 2003. A piece by Katha Pollitt in the New York Times Magazine alerted me to the intense debate about “rational suicide,” feminism, and aging that erupted after she took her own life, having declared often (including in print) that she had always intended to kill herself when she reached seventy. (She made it to seventy-seven and was by all accounts still physically and mentally healthy.)
Another article, “A Death of One’s Own,” suggests in its title alone how much Heilbrun’s death was read in the context of feminism. (Heilbrun was a scholar of Virginia Woolf.) However much Heilbrun’s decision has disturbed those who knew her, some have read it as the ultimate assertion of freedom of choice. Couldn’t Woolson’s suicide be read in a similar vein? Nonetheless, there are still many who read Heilbrun’s suicide as an admission of defeat and even as a tragic submission to patriarchal myths about women, aging, and death. (And of course it’s easier for us today than it was for Woolson in the 1890s to imagine fulfilling, useful lives in our old age.)
One scholar (Margaret Higonnet) has written, “To take one’s life is to force others to read one’s death.” As I have discovered, reading Woolson’s life was less complicated than reading her death. We may never know all the reasons for her suicide, or whether it was a rational decision or a result of mental collapse (as Henry James wanted to believe). But we can at least recognize that her suicide is a much more complex text to read than the familiar myth of woman-in-despair-over-lover-throws-herself-from-a-great-height (or drowns herself). Woolson was no Ophelia.