How we cite our quotes: (Chapter, Paragraph)
Quote #1
Needless to say what distress was the unfortunate man's, when, engaged in conversation with company, he would suddenly perceive his Goneril bestowing her mysterious touches, especially in such cases where the strangeness of the thing seemed to strike upon the touched person, notwithstanding good-breeding forbade his proposing the mystery, on the spot, as a subject of discussion for the company. In these cases, too, the unfortunate man could never endure so much as to look upon the touched young gentleman afterwards, fearful of the mortification of meeting in his countenance some kind of more or less quizzingly-knowing expression. He would shudderingly shun the young gentleman. So that here, to the husband, Goneril's touch had the dread operation of the heathen taboo. (12, 4)
We get precious few mentions of women in The Confidence-Man, and exactly no solid female characters. What female characters we do see aren't presented in the most favorable light. This holds true for Goneril, for example, who shares a name with an infamous Shakespearean villain. (There aren't a lot of Gonerils in the world or in literature, folks, so you can bet this is a direct reference.) Her behavior of creep-touching dinner guests on the arm or shoulder gets gendered here. For the unfortunate—ahem—man, dealing with this becomes a note on his masculinity in this story within the story. How does the dude deal with it? With silent shame. He doesn't look other men in the eye if they've been grazed by Goneril. This gendered domestic cold war also gets another weird layer: the unfortunate man stays silent because of his "good-breeding," which allows for a "heathen taboo" to result from Goneril's actions. In other words, the dude gets aligned with civilization, and the lady with the questionable name is in the heathen camp.
Quote #2
Knowing that she would neither confess nor amend, and might, possibly, become even worse than she was, he thought it but duty as a father, to withdraw the child from her; but, loving it as he did, he could not do so without accompanying it into domestic exile himself. Which, hard though it was, he did. Whereupon the whole female neighborhood, who till now had little enough admired dame Goneril, broke out in indignation against a husband, who, without assigning a cause, could deliberately abandon the wife of his bosom, and sharpen the sting to her, too, by depriving her of the solace of retaining her offspring. (12, 4)
So how can gender relations get even more complicated than they already are? Children, that's how. In this instance, we get a look of what it might mean to be a father, not just a man. This unfortunate man feels duty-bound to take his daughter away from his wife—which puts him in hot water with the women in his neighborhood. This is complicated, because what we get is a narrative of a man who on the outside is abandoning his wife, but no one else knows what his reason is—including the readers. Melville doesn't ever explain what's up with Goneril or quite why the unfortunate man is this distressed. It doesn't help that the unfortunate man is Weeds—the grifter who bums some cash off of the country merchant and has an awkward chat with the scholar. Who do we trust, and why is this characterized as a man-vs.-woman dilemma?
Quote #3
"Surely, friend," returned the noble Methodist, with much ado restraining his still waxing indignation—"surely, to say the least, you forget yourself. Apply it home," he continued, with exterior calmness tremulous with inkept emotion. "Suppose, now, I should exercise no charity in judging your own character by the words which have fallen from you; what sort of vile, pitiless man do you think I would take you for?"
"No doubt"—with a grin—"some such pitiless man as has lost his piety in much the same way that the jockey loses his honesty."
"And how is that, friend?" still conscientiously holding back the old Adam in him, as if it were a mastiff he had by the neck.
"Never you mind how it is"—with a sneer; "but all horses aint virtuous, no more than all men kind; and come close to, and much dealt with, some things are catching. When you find me a virtuous jockey, I will find you a benevolent wise man."
"Some insinuation there."
"More fool you that are puzzled by it."
"Reprobate!" cried the other, his indignation now at last almost boiling over; "godless reprobate! if charity did not restrain me, I could call you by names you deserve."
"Could you, indeed?" with an insolent sneer.
"Yea, and teach you charity on the spot," cried the goaded Methodist, suddenly catching this exasperating opponent by his shabby coat-collar, and shaking him till his timber-toe clattered on the deck like a nine-pin. "You took me for a non-combatant did you?—thought, seedy coward that you are, that you could abuse a Christian with impunity. You find your mistake"—with another hearty shake. (3, 40-48)
This is a good old-fashioned backyard insult battle among schoolboys—except it's among two grown men. All their insults hit at the heart of what each believes to be a decent man—and each believes the other isn't it. Besides the representation of men as prideful verbal sparring combatants, Melville adds further commentary about masculinity when his narrator notes that the Methodist was "holding back old Adam." Wait, say what? Holding back your anger is holding back the first biblical man? What does that mean? Is early-biblical man more violent? Less civilized? Melville's map of masculinity is complicated.