What does Mrs. Fink's journey from "concealing her envy" to "capitulated" reveal about the internal and external pressures shaping her understanding of love and status, and how does this complicate the idea of "tragedy"?

From the book

tween plum duff and his hammock. If only he would shiver his timbers or stamp his foot on the quarter-deck now and then! And she had thought to sail so merrily, touching at ports in the Delectable Isles! But now, to vary the figure, she was ready to throw up the sponge, tired out, without a ​ scratch to show for all those tame rounds with her sparring partner. For one moment she almost hated Mame—Mame, with her cuts and bruises, her salve of presents and kisses, her stormy voyage with her fighting, brutal, loving mate. Mr. Fink came home at 7. He was permeated with the curse of domesticity.…

ed her there. ​ “Hello, old girl!” shouted Mr. Cassidy. He shed his bundles and lifted her off her feet in a mighty hug. “I got tickets for Barnum & Bailey’s, and if you’ll bust the string of one of them bundles I guess you’ll find that silk waist—why, good evening, Mrs. Fink—I didn’t see you at first. How’s old Mart coming along?” “He’s very well, Mr. Cassidy—thanks,” said Mrs. Fink. “I must be going along up now. Mart’ll be home for supper soon. I’ll bring you down that pattern you wanted to-morrow, Mame.” Mrs. Fink went up to her flat and had a little cry. It was a meaningless cry, the…

furthest one was the thought of beating his wife. Mrs. Fink turned on the hot water and set the washboards in the suds. Up from the flat below came the gay laugh of Mrs. Cassidy. It sounded like a taunt, a flaunting of her own happiness in the face of the unslugged bride above. Now was Mrs. Fink’s time. Suddenly she turned like a fury upon the man reading. “You lazy loafer!” she cried, “must I work my arms off washing and toiling for the ugly likes of you? Are you a man or are you a kitchen hound?” Mr. Fink dropped his paper, motionless from surprise. She feared that he would not strike—that…

e would show Mame that there were husbands as able to use their fists and perhaps to be as tender afterward as any Jack. The holiday promised to be a nominal one with the Finks. Mrs. Fink had the stationary washtubs in the kitchen filled with a two weeks’ wash that had been soaking overnight. Mr. Fink sat in his stockinged feet reading a newspaper. Thus Labor Day presaged to speed. Jealousy surged high in Mrs. Fink’s heart, and higher still surged an audacious resolve. If her man would not strike her—if he would not so far prove his manhood, his prerogative and his interest in conjugal…

ater tickets and a silk shirt waist at the very least.” “I should hope,” said Mrs. Fink, assuming complacency, “that Mr. Fink is too much of a gentleman ever to raise his hand against me.” “Oh, go on, Maggie!” said Mrs. Cassidy, laughing ​ and applying witch hazel, “you’re only jealous. Your old man is too frappéd and slow to ever give you a punch. He just sits down and practises physical culture with a newspaper when he comes home—now ain’t that the truth?” “Mr. Fink certainly peruses of the papers when he comes home,” acknowledged Mrs. Fink, with a toss of her head; “but he certainly don’t…